A moment of madness
by Tom's Mum
Summary: Richard's life changes dramatically when a new person enters it.
1. Chapter 1

_I didn't want to post this until I was sure I could finish it, so I am adopting the Netflix approach and posting the whole story in one go. Please note that the later chapters refer to serious childhood illness. I have absolutely no real medical knowledge, so I apologise for any inaccuracies._

* * *

 _Ten weeks earlier_

Richard Poole was normally an early riser. He liked to take advantage of the early morning when it was just _slightly_ less hot. But this morning it was past nine o'clock and daylight was streaming through the windows when he first prised open his eyelids. He winced and snapped them shut again almost immediately, bombarded by the relentless sunshine. It was strange because the shutters normally kept the shack pretty dark but here they were standing wide open. Why had he not shut them before he went to bed? He pondered the issue for a few seconds before memory came flooding shockingly back. Quickly he whipped his head around, but the other side of the bed was cold and empty. There was just the faintest whiff of perfume lingering on the indented pillow.

 _Thank God she has gone_ , was all he could think. In a few hours he would have left the island for good, and this way there was no need for awkward goodbyes. What on earth would he say to her, anyway? After two years of rigid conformity and rule-following, what had possessed him to lose it at the very last minute? Yes, even at the height of his francophobia he had acknowledged that she was very pretty and, despite all her manifold faults he had at times found himself strongly attracted to her, but he thought he had himself well under control. Obviously not.

He stood up, feeling decidedly groggy. He _knew_ he had drunk too much the night before, but what could he do, when everyone insisted on buying him farewell drinks? Unsteadily he put on his pajamas and made for the little bathroom. As he passed, something caught his eye on the table – a note propped up against the fruit bowl.

 _Safe journey, Richard. Have a good life._

Yes, she had done the kindest thing possible in the circumstances – she had left him alone and avoided any kind of painful and embarrassing scene. For once in his life, Richard felt a surge of real gratitude. He glanced at his watch – the taxi would be along in less than an hour, so he needed to get ready and finish his packing. He was finally going home.

* * *

 _The night before_

Camille Bordey sat and quietly watched the man who had been her boss for the past two years. Despite her best endeavours, he was still largely an enigma. She had found him a fascinating challenge and had really enjoyed trying to work out what made him tick, what made him what he was, and she thought she just about had him sussed.

Of course he had improved in some respects since the early days but he still drove her mad sometimes with his pompous, childish and stubborn behaviour – not to mention his habitual grumpiness and his ridiculous refusal to compromise over matters of food and dress. He was so determined to be English at all costs, that he completely missed the sheer pleasures of life in the Caribbean. He had never really allowed himself to give it a chance, and now he had finally got what he had always wanted: a posting back to the UK. Well, he was welcome to his grey skies and his drizzle.

How did she feel about it all? Would she miss him? Well, she wasn't quite sure. In some ways she would miss him a lot; he was an excellent detective and they had certainly become closer recently. She would definitely call him a friend these days. They still argued, but less than before, and she could see that beneath all the bluster there were some fine qualities that surfaced from time to time. But that was just it: it was only from time to time, and just when she thought she was getting somewhere with him he would most likely shut the conversation down. It was frustrating, because she would have liked to get to know him better, but there just hadn't been time. Clearly, it was not meant to be.

The Commissioner approached the table round which the team had gathered, bearing a bottle and beaming benignly.

"Saint-Marie's very finest rum" he announced portentously. "I took it from my personal store that I keep for special occasions. You must try some before you leave, Inspector." It was an order rather than an invitation.

"Oh … er … that's very kind of you, Sir, but I've already had several beers and one of Catherine's lethal cocktails, so I don't think I should …" Richard quailed before the look on Selwyn Patterson's face, and his voice trailed away. He swallowed convulsively. "That is to say, I'd be delighted to try it."

"Goooood, I knew you would find yourself unable to resist, Inspector" and the big man poured a substantial measure into Richard's glass. He was right, it was excellent rum but very strong and Richard soon felt his head starting to spin. He sipped very slowly, hoping to escape further notice, but the Commissioner was watching him like a hawk and repeatedly topped up his glass. After that, the evening started to become something of a blur.

Camille watched in amazement as Richard took off his jacket and tie, stood up and proposed a toast to 'the best team I have ever worked with'. Then he embraced Catherine and thanked her for making his life more or less bearable with her tea. Fortunately, nothing was said about chicken soup. The Commissioner followed that by thanking Richard for his splendid work on the island, proposed another toast to wish him well in his future career, and finally took his leave, rising impressively from the table and genially shaking Richard by the hand before strolling off to his waiting car.

"Phew," said Dwayne with considerable relief, "quite honestly I find him even more intimidating when he is being jovial. But at least he brought us some decent rum. Have another glass, Chief!"

At this point Camille decided it was time to intervene.

"Your taxi is booked for 10 tomorrow morning, Sir, so perhaps I should take you home now so you can finish packing?"

"Yes, thank you, Camille." Richard got to his feet a little unsteadily. Part of him was still expecting the Commissioner to suddenly re-appear with news of yet another conspiracy to keep him on the island. "No big good-byes", he said, and offered his hand to Dwayne and Fidel, both of whom ignored it and hugged him instead.

"Yes … right …" he said a little breathlessly. "Well, I'll be off then". A brief wave then he sank into the passenger seat of the Defender and Camille pulled away.

Richard sat with his eyes closed, gently swaying as the vehicle lurched around the potholes. Camille watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was not habitually a big drinker – just the odd beer or two – and she had certainly never seen him consume as much alcohol as he had that evening. Nor had she ever seen him that mellow. She felt a serious pang; if only he could be like this more of the time – _more human_ , as she had once said to him. When he let his guard down a little she really found him very attractive, and his shy smile was lovely – it was just a shame it was so rarely seen.

They arrived at the shack and she got down in case he needed help making it to the door. He managed by himself, however, unlocked the door then turned to face her.

"Well … er … so goodbye, then, Camille … and … and … thanks for … you know … everything." He held out his hand. She shook it, but didn't release it.

"Do you know, there's something I've been wanting to do for a while and if I don't do it now that you're no longer my boss, I never will."

He was instantly nervous. "There is?"

"Yes." She reached up, took his face between her hands, and kissed him.

* * *

Camille woke as soon as the sun was up. The shutters were still wide open and the sunlight was dazzling. She turned her head and contemplated Richard, who was still deeply asleep. It would be some time before he stirred, she guessed, and he would have a pretty sore head. She lay back on the pillow thoughtfully. What had she done? She had not intended to do anything more than kiss him; and she had honestly not expected him to respond. The only other time she had pecked him on the cheek and hugged him he had stood like a ramrod, and she had not really thought it would be any different this time. But she had been wrong.

Obviously it had been the alcohol talking, and she was pretty sure that when he woke he would be overcome with embarrassment and mortification. For herself, well, she had been carried away and it had gone much further than she had intended, but she wasn't sorry – it had been a surprisingly satisfying interlude that she would remember with some pleasure. She guessed that he was pretty inexperienced, and certainly rusty, but it hadn't seemed to matter. Had he been staying on the island, the relationship might have had a future, she thought, but things were as they were. Better not to make an issue of it, better just to slip away quietly and avoid any awkwardness.

Taking care not to disturb Richard, Camille slid out of bed and tiptoed around in search of her clothes. She pulled a piece of paper from her bag, wrote a quick note, and crept silently out of the door. It was a shame, but it couldn't be helped.

* * *

At six-thirty on a cold, wet and windy Friday evening in mid-January Richard unlocked his front door and stepped gratefully inside. His umbrella had blown inside out on the 10-minute walk from the tube station and he had had to deposit it in a rubbish bin. Although he was wearing his overcoat, it was not waterproof and he was pretty much soaked to the skin. This wasn't the sort of crisp, cold winter's day he had dreamed of during his years in the Caribbean.

He quickly changed out of his wet clothes and hung them up to dry, then made himself a hot cup of tea and settled himself in his favourite armchair. He was feeling undeniably low; apart from the drenching on the way home and the loss of yet another umbrella to the unpredictable British weather, he had been working on a murder case that had got under his skin. Not one of the knife-in-the-heart-with-a-neat-group-of-suspects murders that he so enjoyed, but a young child who had also been the victim of abuse. He had given evidence in the case and today the murderer had been found guilty and would probably receive a whole-life sentence. He and his team had been congratulated by the judge on a fine piece of police work, but it had been a particularly unpleasant case and it had left a nasty taste in his mouth. He really needed that cup of tea.

After a few sips he was disturbed by a ring at the doorbell. Puzzled, he got up and went into the hall. He hadn't ordered anything online recently so wasn't expecting a delivery, and it certainly wouldn't be one of his neighbours, since he barely knew them. Perhaps it was one of the mad evangelists who sometimes worked the street or someone collecting for charity. He opened the door to find a woman huddled in a soaking raincoat with a large hood obscuring her face. She looked up.

"Hello, Richard", said Camille.

He stared at her, open-mouthed and speechless. It couldn't possibly be Camille. Camille belonged to the Caribbean, to a land of impossible heat, man-eating bugs and infernal sand. She didn't belong in cold and rainy London.

"Good God! Wha … what are you doing here?" he eventually stuttered.

"I came to see you" she replied brightly. "Can I come inside? It's a little damp out here on the doorstep."

He held open the door for her, and she dripped all over his hallway. Mechanically he took her coat and hung it next to his and motioned her into the sitting-room. He hadn't seen or heard from her since the evening before he left Saint-Marie, and since then he had steadfastly refused to think about what had occurred that night, on the basis that as he was never going to see her again there was no need. But here she was, forcing him by her very presence to confront what had happened between them, and he really did not want to do that at all.

She sat on the sofa, facing him. Automatically he picked up his cup of tea, then put it back down, embarrassed.

"Would you like some?" he offered. She declined, with a smile.

He fidgeted in his seat, not knowing what to do with his hands.

"Er … so how are Fidel and Dwayne?"

"They're fine, though Fidel is thinking of applying for a transfer to another island, where there's more scope for him to progress."

"I'm sure he will do well wherever he is. And … and your mother?"

"She's fine too."

"Good." There was a long pause. "And the new DI?"

"Oh he's settling in well. Loves being on the island. Not like you …"

"No." Another pause. Richard stared intently at his feet. Why was she here?

"Erm … so … well, it's obviously lovely to see you, Camille, but I can't help but wonder … um … you know … er … what you're doing here?"

She looked him straight in the eye and took a deep breath. This was it. "I came, as I said, to see you. I came to see you to tell you that I'm pregnant."

Richard spluttered and put his cup down with a crash. " _What?_ "

"I'm sorry, I know it must be a shock, but there is no easy way to say it. I'm pregnant, you're the father and I thought that you had a right to know. Actually, I nearly didn't come. I wasn't at all sure whether you would want to know or not. I'm still not sure whether I've done the right thing."

It was true. She had known about her pregnancy for several weeks before she finally made the decision to fly to London. She knew what a reserved person Richard was and how difficult he found normal relationships with people, and she really wasn't at all certain whether he would want to be told about the coming baby. Part of her believed he would in fact be happier not knowing, but the other part felt he had a right to know and that perhaps a child might even help to bring him out of his shell. She had debated with herself endlessly, before deciding to leave it to fate: she would fly to London without alerting him and knock on his door. If he was out or didn't answer, she would take it as a sign and would go away and not come back. But he was in and he _had_ answered, so fate had clearly wanted this to happen. She stared at him expectantly. He looked totally shell-shocked.

"I … I don't know what to say, Camille. I'm so sorry … I was quite drunk that night or it wouldn't have happened."

"It was no more your fault than mine, Richard. I didn't intend it to happen, but it did, and I started it really."

"You weren't … um …?"

"On the pill? No, I hadn't been in a relationship for some time. I intended to get the morning after pill but the pharmacy was closed for the weekend and then on the Monday all hell broke loose at the station and so I never got round to it."

"And you're definitely … um … you know … going ahead?"

"Yes. Are you suggesting I shouldn't?"

"No, not at all – but … well … you know … a baby is a big responsibility and I just wanted to be sure you had …er … thought it through."

"Yes, I've thought about it very seriously. My mother will help, of course, and I can apply to work part-time until he or she is old enough." She took a deep breath. "I didn't plan this baby but I'm happy about it - I always intended to have children at some stage. The question is: what about you? Do you want to be involved or not? It's entirely your choice."

Richard rubbed his temples hard and paced up and down. "I'm sorry, Camille, but I just can't take this in. I need some time to think."

"Yes of course. It must be a real shock. Well, I'm flying back to Saint-Marie tomorrow evening, but I could come round in the morning, if you like?"

"Yes. Yes, that would be better."

She stood up. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." She collected her coat from the hallway, opened the front door and stepped back out into the rainy darkness, leaving Richard to stare wordlessly after her rapidly disappearing figure.

He shut the door, returned to the sitting-room, poured himself a large whisky and collapsed into his armchair to think.

Several hours later, when he finally rolled into bed, Richard was no closer to resolving his dilemma. He was, quite literally, stunned by the news Camille had imparted. Nothing in life had prepared him for this and he found it impossible to make his brain think clearly and difficult to force himself to move from his refuge in the armchair. How could this possibly have happened to him? Well, technically he knew perfectly well how it had happened, but who would have thought one kiss could be so intoxicating? He had always been timid and cautious in his personal life; he knew what he liked and he stuck to it. Not for him a world of adventure – he followed the same routine every day, ate the same lunch, wore the same clothes, took not the slightest of risks. So how had he allowed himself to succumb to a siren's song which he had resisted without any – well, not much – trouble for all the time he had been on the island?

It had been the drink, of course – or more to the point, the Commissioner's insistence on plying him with rum when he had already had more than enough. And look what it had led to! The wily old goat, not content with _twice_ manipulating him into staying on the island, was continuing his machinations and pulling his strings even though he was thousands of miles away.

Richard angrily banged his pillow into shape, turned on his side and drew his knees up to his chest. _The foetal position_ he thought hollowly. He _had_ to think, he _had_ to have an answer for Camille in the morning. A moment of frustration with her for not having taken precautions passed quickly, as he ruefully acknowledged that he had been just as much to blame in that respect and that neither had intended the encounter to go as far as it had. She was obviously keen to have the baby and of course he totally respected her wishes, but did he want to be a father? Was he ready for that kind of commitment and responsibility? He was pretty sure that he would be hopeless at it, having absolutely no experience with children apart from babysitting Rosie for Fidel on a couple of occasions, which hardly counted as she never stirred.

His life was calm, tidy, ordered, predictable. A baby was none of those things. A baby would change everything and he was not sure that was what he wanted. And anyway he and Camille were half a world apart (and not just geographically), so how would that work? And what would everyone say? He could just imagine the gossip circulating round the market at Honoré: the mango seller would whisper to the bookseller, who would pass it on to the lady on the craft stall, who in turn was married to the local butcher … Richard squirmed, picturing the scene. He was a very private man and the thought of such extremely personal matters being the subject of public gossip and, no doubt, much sniggering made his blood run cold.

On the other hand, he could hardly leave Camille in the lurch. That would not be the correct thing to do at all. He may have sprung from very middle-class stock but not for nothing had Richard been privately educated; he knew how a gentleman should behave, even if he wasn't always capable of achieving it himself. And if he was honest with himself, his life did sometimes feel empty of meaning when he was not at work. Although he had never had any success with women and claimed not to understand them (perhaps because he didn't try very hard), there was a tiny part of him that still hoped that one day, somewhere, he would meet someone he could share his life with. Perhaps a baby might help fill the void?

He tossed and turned, his brain trying to tussle with every aspect of this new and terrifying situation, but he was no nearer coming to a decision. He glanced at the clock: 3 am. With a groan he got up, padded to the kitchen in his bare feet (the floor was of course spotless) and made himself a cup of tea, which he took back to bed. Hours later he was woken by the piercing shriek of the doorbell. The cold cup of tea was sitting undrunk on his bedside table, and he could hear someone calling to him. To his horror he realised it was Camille, come for her answer. He grabbed his dressing-gown and rushed to the door to let her in, gabbling apologies like a maniac. Abandoning her temporarily in the sitting-room he rushed to shower and throw on some clothes. A few minutes later he found her in the kitchen, smiling and offering him some tea which she had made.

"I see you still have the pajamas, Richard. I always thought they were curiously sexy."

He blushed scarlet and muttered something incoherent, indicating that they should move to the lounge and sit down.

"So," she began, "I can see that you have had a disturbed night. I'm sorry about that but did it bring you any counsel?"

This was it. He had to say something, even though he was still deeply conflicted. He opened his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say, and was really rather surprised when it came out as:

"Do you want to get married, Camille?"

She was genuinely taken aback. She had envisaged a number of things he might say, but not that. On reflection, of course, she should have expected it – Richard playing the gentleman and 'doing the right thing'.

"But we hardly know each other!"

He demurred. "I wouldn't say _hardly_ – after all, we worked together for more than two years."

"Oh, I know _Inspector Poole_ very well – and a fine detective he is too. But I hardly know _Richard_ at all, although I would like to, from the little glimpses I have had. Think, Richard, over all those months, how many conversations of a personal nature have we ever had? I could probably count them on my fingers. What do you know about me? What's my favourite colour? What sort of music do I like? You don't know, do you? Yes, in a moment of madness we made a baby together but that's not enough for marriage."

He was baffled. "So what is it you want from me? I can support you financially, of course."

"Thank you, but I didn't come here for money. I am perfectly well able to provide for my child. I want to know whether you will become a _presence_ in his or her life – albeit one on the other side of the world. If you don't want to, that's fine, I understand. You didn't ask for this and it must be hard to have it suddenly thrust on you. I just want to give you the opportunity if you wish to take it."

"So if I do …?"

"We can keep in touch by Skype, and I'll bring the baby here for visits, and you can come to Saint-Marie when you have leave. It's not ideal, but we can make it work if we try."

"And if I decide against?"

"You won't see either of us again. No-one will ever know the child is yours, though I reserve the right to tell him or her when they come of age."

"I see." He rubbed his head hard. "Well … er … the thing is that … this has all been so overwhelming … but … um … I think I _would_ like to be involved, only … only …"

"Only?"

"It's just that … I can't bear it, all the gossip. You know … down at the market and at your mother's bar."

"My mother will be thrilled."

"Not when she finds out who the father is!"

"You're exaggerating. You may not be her favourite person, but she'll overlook that for the sake of having a grandchild. But I understand what you're saying. Yes, there will be gossip – a lot of gossip – and I don't much care for it either. But I guess I'm more used to it than you are – it's my home, after all."

She thought for a few minutes.

"What if I don't tell anyone who the father is, at least to start with? There's no real need, since you're thousands of miles away. And we can meet on another island – Antigua, say - instead of on Saint-Marie."

"What about your mother?"

"I'll tell her what I tell everyone else – that the father isn't on the island. Of course all her friends will pump her for information, but if she genuinely doesn't know she won't have to lie. I'll tell her one day, when the interest has died down a bit – I'm sure she'll forgive me!"

"People will speculate …"

"Let them! Everyone knows I went to France for a while after you left, so they will assume I met someone there."

She looked at him quizzically. "So, are we agreed?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, I think we are. I don't really know what I'm getting into but I promise I'll do my best to be supportive – although I wasn't very good at it the last time I tried."

She smiled. "No, but at least you tried. And the flowers were lovely." She raised her teacup.

"To co-parenting?"

"To co-parenting."

She glanced at her watch. "I'd better get back to the hotel and pack – you have to arrive at the airport hours before your flight these days." She got up and he rose to let her out. Laying her hands lightly on his shoulders she kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"Bon courage, Richard. It may not be as bad as you think. I'll be in touch." And with that she walked quickly out of the door and up the street. Richard watched until she rounded the corner, then returned to the sitting-room and sank back into his armchair once more. Well, the die was cast. It was certainly turning into an eventful weekend.


	2. Chapter 2

For the rest of Saturday, Richard rigorously deep-cleaned his entire house. No corner was left unswept, no cobweb undusted, no cupboard uncleared. It took him many hours but it had the saving grace of stopping him from thinking about the thunderbolt that had just shattered his life. Exhausted, he fell into bed and somewhat to his surprise dropped off almost immediately and slept until Sunday morning. Then the reality hit home.

Conscious of his abysmal lack of knowledge, he sat all day at his computer, feverishly scrolling through every website he could find relating to pregnancy and childbirth. He ordered several books, and started drawing up a week-by-week chart showing the development of the foetus and the accompanying physical signs in the mother. In his view, Camille had always been far too relaxed and slapdash, and he was sure he would have to monitor her carefully. The more he read the more horrified he became at all the things that could potentially go wrong. He had had no idea of how complex an issue pregnancy could be and by Sunday night he was amazed that any woman managed to survive it, let alone repeat the experience. He even toyed with the idea of calling Camille and urging her, for her own sake, not to go through with it.

A couple of days later the books arrived and he read each of them cover to cover twice. By now he probably knew as much about pregnancy and childbirth as the average midwife, and it wasn't making him any calmer or less worried.

One day at work he made an excuse to call in one of his sergeants, who he knew had recently returned from paternity leave. Trying (and probably failing) to sound casual, he asked him how he was finding fatherhood.

Sergeant Graham grinned. "Well, you know, Sir, he's a lovely little chap but my wife and I, we're living in a state of permanent chaos, nappy changing and sleep deprivation. It really does turn your life upside down. The night-time feeds are the worse, although my wife usually takes care of them, but there are times when he just cries and cries and nothing we do seems to make any difference."

Richard listened in horror. This was what was in store for _him_ – at least for a few weeks in the year.

"So you won't be rushing to have any more, then?"

The sergeant laughed. "Oh I expect we will. We'll survive. It doesn't last for ever, you know, and there's simply nothing like holding your own child in your arms."

"No … er … quite."

"Sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to go on. I know you're not really a family man. But thank you for asking."

Richard gave a small nod of dismissal, still somewhat discomforted by the sergeant's words, and returned to his case files. He read the same page three times before he even noticed.

On a Sunday about two weeks after her visit to the UK, Camille rang.

"I just called to let you know that I've had my 12-week scan, and everything is fine."

"What could you see?"

"Not very much, just a blob, really. It's still very small. The next scan will be better."

"Yes. And … er … are you feeling OK? You know, morning sickness, fainting …?"

"I'm perfectly well, thank you. I've barely felt nauseous at all. Sometimes I'm a bit more tired than usual, but that's about it."

He pounced excitedly. "Ah yes, tiredness. That's one of the classic symptoms. Well, make sure you get enough rest, and take plenty of Vitamin D. It says so in the book I've been reading."

"Richard, I don't need to take Vitamin D! The sun shines virtually all the time here – remember?"

"But better to be on the safe side. You should take a course of tablets."

"Richard, _I am not ill_ , just pregnant. Don't wind me up!"

"Ha! Mood swings – that's another symptom!"

She ground her teeth. He would never change. "I appreciate your concern, Richard, but there's really no need. As I said, I am perfectly well. Let's talk about something else. You will be pleased to know that my mother is over the moon, as I knew she would be, and Dwayne wants to be godfather."

" _Dwayne?_ "

"Yes, and I think he will make an excellent godparent. I wish he'd been mine when I was growing up."

"Hmmm … I'm not sure about that! He's not exactly the most responsible of people." He sensed her hackles rising at the other end of the line, so added hastily "But we can talk about it later. Er … anyone ask any awkward questions?"

"Oh yes, but I just tell everyone who's bold enough to ask that the father isn't on the island, and they seem to have accepted that."

"Even your mother?"

"My mother is very wise, Richard. She knows when not to ask questions."

And so the pattern was established. They spoke, or – once Camille's bump became visible – skyped every weekend. She became used to twisting and turning in front of the camera, so he could see for himself how her normally slender figure was expanding. Camille continued serenely into her second trimester, a complete stranger to all the worries and concerns that beset and tormented Richard, half a world away.

She quickly learned to minimise any symptoms she might be suffering following a painful episode in which he convinced himself that the swelling she was experiencing in her feet was a sign of imminent pre-eclampsia. It took a great deal of reassurance on her part that this was a perfectly normal part of pregnancy and eventually a promise to have her blood pressure checked again, for that particular storm to pass.

Then there was the time when, at 18 weeks, the baby hadn't yet started moving in the womb. Richard knew perfectly well that it didn't always happen that early and that there was nothing to worry about, but he couldn't stop himself from fretting and texted her constantly for updates. Camille found it wearing, but also rather endearing – at least it showed he cared – so she tolerated his panics whenever they arose and soothed and cajoled him into something approaching her own state of calmness.

She herself had no worries. She knew she was fit and healthy and there was no reason at all why everything should not go perfectly smoothly. And she knew that, if she needed her, Catherine would be by her side. Together they had re-decorated and fitted out the little spare room above the bar to make it into a nursery. Painted largely in sunshine yellow and with bright red shutters opening on to the blue ocean and a bright red cot, it was to be a happy place in which to raise a baby. She had taken photos and emailed them to Richard, who had replied – she thought a little wistfully – with a description of the beige-and-white coloured room he had grown up in himself. But then everything in his parents' house had been beige and white.

During one of their Skype discussions, Richard asked Camille about her 20-week scan, which was due shortly.

"So, are you going to find out whether it's a boy or a girl?"

"Yes, I think so. I won't tell you if you don't want to know, though."

"No, I want to know. At least, I think I do …"

"Well, whatever it is it's hungry! I'm permanently starving and forever eating."

"You mustn't eat too much, Camille. I know you need to snack, but don't go overboard. You're only supposed to be putting on about 4lb a month, you know."

"Are you saying I'm too fat?"

He sighed. She was so moody, it was impossible to say the right thing. It was bad enough normally, but with her hormones running riot it was like tiptoeing through quicksand.

"No, of course you're not fat – it's the baby. I'm just saying, don't take _eating for two_ too literally!"

"Of course I might be having twins! That's why I'm so fat!"

Richard blanched. One baby was bad enough, but _two …_

"Do you think that's likely?" he asked weakly.

"No, not really, there's no history of twins in my family. But you never know!"

He decided a change of subject was in order.

"Are you doing your pelvic floor exercises?"

"Yes, Richard."

"And putting your feet up to rest?"

" _Yes, Richard._ "

"Well, you should be fine, then."

If there had been a wall handy, she would have banged her head against it.

Some days later Richard received an unexpected item in the post. He could see that it was post-marked Saint-Marie, so he guessed it must be from Camille, but it felt rigid so he had no idea what it could be. He opened it slowly and out fell a cardboard photo frame. In the middle was a grainy image. It was blurred, but there was no mistaking that it was of a baby. The baby he had helped to make. At the bottom Camille had written _20 weeks – and only one of her!_

So, a little girl. This was for real. Richard sat staring at the image for some time, then put it carefully in his desk drawer.

Some weeks later, in their weekly chat, he brought up the issue of the birth.

"Really, I'd like a home birth, but the midwife says I should go to the hospital as this is my first child."

"Yes, I'm sure that's right. You'll be classed as an elderly primigravida, and there's always an added risk in those cases. You have to be sensible about it, Camille."

"What do you mean _elderly?_ Are you calling me old again, as well as fat? I'm a lot younger than you!"

"I'm well aware of that. It's a medical term, Camille, that they apply to anyone from their mid-thirties onwards who is about to give birth for the first time. Not a very flattering description, I agree, but I would think you just about fit into that category."

"Pff! Well I certainly _feel_ old at the moment – swollen feet, varicose veins and backache! And I feel like an elephant lumbering around. I told her not to kick so hard the other day, and she kicked me again even harder! So we had words …"

"You're _talking_ to her?"

"Of course! I would have thought all your books would have told you that you should talk to your baby to get it used to your voice. I play music too – they say babies can recognise when they're born music they listened to in the womb. Perhaps you should try talking to her too?"

Richard decided to ignore that suggestion. It all sounded very dubious to him. "Well, what I _do_ know is that a woman's hormones can affect the personality traits of her baby – and that is scientifically proven! So you need to keep calm and not get so worked up!"

" _I_ am perfectly calm, Richard – _you're_ the one that's getting worked up! But there's no need – everything is fine and I am going to all my appointments and my ante-natal classes. What about you?"

" _Me?_ " he squeaked.

"Yes, you. Lots of men go to ante-natal classes – you should too."

"Understand this, Camille, I am not – repeat not – going to spend my time sitting cross-legged on the floor with a lot of women playing breathing games and humming! _Especially_ as I don't have a pregnant partner to accompany."

She shrugged. "That's a very old-fashioned view – there's a lot more to it than that. But as you wish – I'm not going to argue with you."

"Well that's a first. But anyway, I need to check that you've got your hospital bag all packed and ready."

She sighed. "Richard, there's another ten weeks to go – plenty of time for that."

"But anything could happen. You need to be prepared."

"OK, OK, I'll do it tomorrow. Or probably on Tuesday, as I've promised to visit my cousin on the east coast tomorrow."

"I trust you're taking a taxi. You're not still driving?"

"Of course I am – why ever not? The seatbelt still fits round me."

"But if you have to swerve or do an emergency stop …"

"It would be no different whether I was driving or a passenger. I keep telling you, Richard, I'm not ill, I'm just a bit ungainly and I waddle. That doesn't mean I can't live a normal life. I'll stop when I can't get behind the wheel."

Richard gave in. He knew that he would never be able to influence her from thousands of miles away, and he was honest enough to admit that opting for anonymity hadn't left him in the strongest position in any case. But it didn't stop him from fretting and worrying as the due date grew steadily nearer. He had of course fully researched the process of childbirth and knew exactly what to expect, even though he wasn't going to be there. Unfortunately for him, horror stories of mishaps and medical incompetence proliferated on the internet, and though they made him blench with fear he could not stop himself from devouring them. He told himself repeatedly that in the modern world virtually every delivery was successful and tried vainly to suppress the panic which rose in him at the slightest thought of something going wrong. What would he do if that happened, stuck on the other side of the world as he was? He had no idea.

Camille was well aware of the terrors with which Richard was beset; she felt a little sorry for him as he was so clearly out of his depth, and she did her best not to exacerbate them. To be honest, she was profoundly grateful that he was not attending the birth; whatever lay ahead for her she was quite sure that she would cope much better without his well-meaning but ultimately infuriating presence. She was a little nervous, but not unduly so, as she knew she was well prepared and would be in the best of hands. She was planning on having the baby in Guadeloupe (providing it did not arrive too quickly) as she knew that the French health care system was one of the very best in the world. Of course, Richard had disputed that, but as she was able to quote the relevant World Health Service report he was eventually forced to concede.

One thing she was determined on: she was not going to tell him when she went into labour. What he didn't know, he couldn't worry about, she reasoned.

And so it was on a Thursday morning in the second half of July, while he was writing up a case report in his office, that Richard's phone pinged and an email from Camille popped up.

 _Eva Aimée Bordey, born 19 July, 2.8 kg. We're both fine._

There was an attachment. With shaking hands he opened it. Staring back at him was a little bundle with fairly light skin and dark hair. His daughter. He had become a father.

 _Eva Aimée Bordey._ He had left the choice of name to Camille, conscious that they were unlikely to agree on the subject and unwilling to provoke an argument. Eva would not have been his first choice, but he didn't dislike it, and when he thought of some of the French names she could have chosen he acknowledged that it could have been much worse. Aimée was obviously for her murdered friend, and he had no problem with that. It came as something of a shock, however, to see Bordey as her surname, although given his reluctance to be known as the father, there was little else that Camille could have done. Quite surprisingly he was conscious of a degree of regret that she could not be called Poole.

He quickly texted a few words to Camille, promising to call her that evening, and rang a florist to order some flowers. When they asked him what message he wanted on the card, his mind went blank. It would be on public display in the hospital, so he could not sign his name. In the end he opted for no card at all, but insisted the flowers should be white orchids; he knew she would recognise the sender. The rest of the day passed in a bit of a whirl, but if his colleagues noticed he was more than usually distracted from the job in hand, they did not comment on it.

He rushed home and quickly dialled her number.

"Richard …?" she said sleepily.

"Oh God, sorry … have I woken you up?"

"Yes, but it will be feeding time soon anyway. It's _always_ nearly feeding time."

"So … how are you?"

"I've just had a baby, Richard. I'm sore and I'm tired, what do you expect?"

"Sorry … I … er … how did it go?"

"It was straightforward – I can't say it was pleasant or painless but it was fairly quick. _Maman_ was with me. "

"And she … Eva … ?"

Camille dropped her voice to a whisper. "She's beautiful, Richard … really beautiful and quite perfect. I know all mothers think their babies are beautiful, but she truly is – everyone says so."

"She must take after you then."

"If that was a compliment, then thank you. I don't know, I can't really see any resemblance – she's too young, just a tiny baby. Time will tell."

A tiny wail floated across the miles. Eva was hungry.

"It's feeding time, Richard, I have to go. I'll Skype you on Sunday when we're home. Come and see her soon. Oh, and thank you for the flowers. I told my mother the card must have fallen off in the delivery van. I'm not sure she believed me, but as I said she's too wise to ask questions."

Richard hung up thoughtfully. Yes, he would go and visit but the timing would be tricky. He had taken hardly any leave this year so he had several weeks due to him, but it was school holiday time and he was supposed to be covering for his colleagues who had to take their break in July and August. He couldn't just take a week off when he felt like it. Then it came to him: there was a bank holiday weekend coming up at the end of August. He thought he could probably get away with taking the Friday off which, allowing for travel and the time difference, would give him a couple of days in the Caribbean. It was a long way to go just for a weekend, but at least he would get to meet his daughter. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine; the very prospect made him extremely nervous, and he wasn't sure how he was going to react. But he had promised Camille, and whatever else he was, he was a man of his word.

Since Eva's parentage was not to be generally known, he and Camille had agreed to meet on Antigua instead of Saint-Marie. Richard quickly searched for flights and when he next spoke to Camille the arrangements were confirmed and she undertook to book a self-catering bungalow for the weekend.

Soon afterwards, a large hardbacked envelope postmarked Saint-Marie arrived at his home, containing a couple of professionally taken studio photographs of Eva. Richard studied them carefully. All babies tended to look the same to him, but he conceded that in this instance Camille was right: Eva _was_ beautiful. He had seen her via Skype of course, but the picture was always a little fuzzy and this was the first time he had had a really clear view. She was lying on her back and appeared to be smiling at something out of shot. Her hair was dark and quite curly and her eyes a kind of slaty-blue. Her features seemed totally harmonious – she was the sort of perfect baby that was chosen to appear in advertising shoots.

Richard was mesmerised. He rushed up to the attic and dug around until he found a box of old photo frames that had been there for many years; his house was spartan and austerely furnished with no place for knick-knacks or mementos, and there had certainly been no-one whose photo he had wanted to display and gaze on daily. As he dusted off the frames and selected ones that fitted, he experienced a moment of guilt; perhaps he should have put a photo of his parents up on his wall, as they were his only relations …? But then, how would it have felt to live under the slightly disappointed stare of his father all this time?

He dismissed that thought hurriedly, returned the box to the attic and set about framing the photos Camille had sent. He stood the bigger of the two on the mantelpiece, and put the second in his briefcase. It was destined for the drawer of his desk, where the next morning he placed it carefully, next to the tin of jelly babies. Over the next few days he took to leaving the drawer open, so whenever he paused from whatever task was in hand he could glance down at the chubby features of his daughter, slamming the drawer quickly shut whenever anyone entered his office. He thought about making the photo on his phone into a screensaver for his computer, but decided that was a step as yet too far – anyone might see it, and he was still, after all, the timid, reserved and cautious man he had always been. What he really needed was more books – this time, about child development and looking after a baby.


	3. Chapter 3

Camille smiled radiantly at the receptionist who had carried her luggage and opened the door to the bungalow she had booked. Even though the flight from Saint-Marie was less than half an hour, it was difficult and tiring travelling with a baby. Mercifully, Eva had slept throughout the journey, but Camille knew she would soon be awake and demanding a feed. She thanked the blushing young man profusely and slipped a generous tip into his hand, then set about settling in and unpacking.

She walked out onto the veranda and admired the view, which was indeed spectacular. She had chosen an over-water property, thinking it would be calm and peaceful, and also that Richard would not be surrounded by sand all the time, but she suspected he might find being suspended above the ocean somewhat unnerving. Well, _tant pis_! You couldn't have everything and finding a suitable holiday property to rent on an island like this that was _not_ on a beach or over the water would be well nigh impossible. He would just have to put up with it.

Eva stirred and began her familiar hungry wail. Camille picked her up and settled herself in one of the chairs on the veranda to begin the feed. With her daughter nuzzling contentedly at her breast, she let her mind roam back over the past year, which had brought such changes in her life. None of it had been planned, but she had no regrets; she had moved serenely into motherhood as if it were a role for which she had long been destined.

And so far Richard had been a more promising father than she had any right to hope for. Over the months of her pregnancy they had spoken frequently and were starting to get to know each other much better. Of course he could still be unbelievably annoying, but she knew that he was innately a good man and that deep down he did care about this unexpected child, even if he wasn't yet ready to admit publicly to paternity. Theoretically he knew pretty much all there was to know about raising a child, but there was a big difference between reading a book and being faced with a real live being. She wondered - with interest but not a great deal of expectation -how he would cope.

Camille's musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching voices, which must mean Richard had arrived. She quickly did up the front of her dress, lay Eva down in her cot and went to the door to meet him.

"Hello, Richard", she said brightly. "Good journey?"

She was expecting the usual rant about delays, lost luggage etc, but to her surprise he merely shrugged and said "Yes, fine." He followed her through into the living area and put down his case. He had only packed a carry on bag, so there was no chance of his luggage being lost.

"Er … is this thing quite safe?" He peered nervously out of the window. The bungalow was built on stilts and he wasn't at all convinced that it would withstand a strong wind.

"Of course it is. The weather is perfectly calm, and if you hadn't noticed there's no sand outside the front door." She glanced at his tense face and added mischievously "But look out for the sharks under the glass floor!"

Richard visibly jumped. "Sharks?" he shrilled. "There are sharks out here?"

"Don't worry", she replied soothingly, "they don't come this far in. But you can still see quite a variety of fish. Look …", and she pointed to the glass panel in the floor.

"Mmm …" Richard swallowed convulsively, visibly ill at ease. Camille smiled to herself; at least it had taken his mind off the coming meeting with his daughter, which she knew full well would be difficult for him. She offered to make him a cup of tea "unless you'd like something cool?"

Richard was suddenly aware of just how hot it was. In the intervening months he had not exactly forgotten how unbearable the climate was, but the immediacy of it had faded. But now he realised that his shirt was clinging to him and his jacket was virtually steaming. While Camille was fixing his drink, he slipped off his jacket and loosened his tie.

"Don't tell me you haven't brought any lighter clothing?" She put the glass down on the little table next to him. She shook her head in despair. "For goodness sake, Richard. You're not on duty any more - take your tie off and roll up your sleeves!"

Richard had indeed brought no light clothing, just a couple of spare shirts, underwear and his pajamas. He began to think that perhaps he had been a little foolish; maybe he would do a spot of shopping in the morning. But then again, he had tried that once before and when the moment came he hadn't been able to bring himself to make the change; in the end he had got rid of his alien new clothes and stuck to his familiar old suits. But, as Camille said, he was no longer working in the Caribbean, so perhaps a small concession to the climate might be in order. It was a daring thought and it unnerved him somewhat, so he decided to sleep on it.

On that subject … "Where do I sleep, Camille?"

"Well, the bedroom has a giant double, which you are welcome to share with me ... or …" , seeing him flush bright crimson and start to stutter, "you can have the sofa bed in here."

"The sofa bed will be fine", he gasped gratefully.

"It's probably for the best – I have to feed Eva every few hours and it would only disturb you. So … are you ready to meet your daughter?"

Richard nodded, his throat suddenly tight. Camille went into the bedroom and returned carrying a squirming bundle which she placed carefully in his arms. His normal defence mechanism snapped in and he froze, sitting rigidly upright.

"You can breathe, you know – she won't break."

Richard shifted gingerly. It was only the second time in his life that he had ever held a baby and he felt awkward and unsure of what to do. Of course he had seen Eva in the Skype sessions with Camille, but having a living, breathing creature in his arms was quite different.

"Can I leave her with you for 10 minutes while I go for a swim? I need refreshing after the journey." Without waiting for an answer Camille quickly stripped off her dress to reveal a swimsuit underneath. "Come out onto the veranda and watch - there is a ladder that leads down into the sea. No use asking if you want to join me …?"

Richard shook his head very firmly but got up carefully and, still holding Eva, made his way outside and sank into a comfortable chair as far away from the sea as possible. No way was he going anywhere near the edge of the veranda, especially with a baby in his arms, but he sat and watched as Camille swam and dived and eventually just floated on the water.

"Careful the current doesn't carry you out to sea …" he called.

"The tide's coming IN, Richard", she laughed, hauling herself back up the ladder. As she emerged from the water he was strongly reminded of Ursula Andress in _Dr No_ , who he had fantasied about when he was very young. She had been blonde, of course, but still …

Camille broke in on his reverie, and bore Eva away to the bedroom, leaving Richard feeling strangely bereft. "She needs a nap now." A few minutes later and Camille was back.

"What would you like for your lunch?" she enquired. "I did some online shopping before I left and it has already been delivered."

"I'll have a banana sandwich, please."

She sighed. "You had a banana sandwich every day for two years when you were on Saint-Marie. Wouldn't you like something different? You don't have them at home, do you …?"

"No, at home I have a cheese and pickle sandwich, but you can't get cheddar in the Caribbean. Or pickle, probably."

"Every day?"

"Yes. What's wrong? At least you know where you are with a banana sandwich. Or cheese and pickle."

She sighed. "You know, Richard, I really like you, but you are so cautious. You never try anything new, you never take the smallest risk … You never made the slightest concession to the Caribbean – you just tried to create London in the tropics. You wore the same clothes, you ate the same food every day."

"Well that's where you're wrong. I ate mangoes and sweet potatoes, I'll have you know!"

"Only because you couldn't get your … what do you call it? … steak and kidney pudding. And you complained about the food all the time! If only you could learn to bend a little … you know, compromise."

Richard bristled. "I _did_ compromise – I told you, I was positively feral by the end."

"By your standards."

"Yes … well, my standards are high! I don't understand where all this is going, Camille. What is it you want from me?"

"I want you to be a little less … what's the expression … dyed in the wool. Ha! Just like your suit! I want you to be a little more open to new experiences."

He knew he would have to humour her. "All right then, so you make me some lunch that isn't a banana sandwich, and I promise to eat it as long as it hasn't got eyes!"

"Done!" She got up with alacrity and sped off to the tiny kitchen, humming delightedly to herself. Richard lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was feeling the effects of jet lag but made a conscious effort to stay awake amid the clattering of pans and other assorted noises emanating from somewhere behind his head. About half a hour later Camille returned, triumphantly carrying two large brimming plates, which she set down on the tiny table.

" _Voilà!_ " she announced with a flourish. "I've made you a lovely salad."

He sat at the table and eyed the plateful before him with something very like suspicion. He could spot lettuce, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, green beans, potato and tuna. He poked around a little, but the most exotic thing he could find was a few olives, so he decided it was probably safe to eat and unlikely to bring on a bout of indigestion. He tentatively nibbled a few mouthfuls; it was surprisingly good.

"OK? Nothing to give you nightmares?"

"Mmmm … yes, OK. Actually, very nice. I didn't realise how hungry I was – I didn't eat much on the plane." And he finished up every last bit.

"Well, that was a _salade niçoise_ – a classic French dish. Actually it should also have had anchovies, but I thought they looked a bit too much like having eyes, if you know what I mean. So you've had a French meal and haven't died … and I think the next thing should be some better clothes. Let's go shopping this afternoon."

He had forgotten what a force of nature Camille could be when she set her mind to it. In no time he was whisked out of the bungalow and into the small town that lay just beyond the resort. The shops were mostly very tourist-oriented but they managed to find a clothes stall in the large and colourful market, and Richard was soon the not-so-proud possessor of a pair of light chinos, a couple of short-sleeved shirts and a pair of light canvas slip-on shoes. Camille had been going to insist on sandals, but she realised just in time that he was bound to insist on wearing socks with them, so wisely abandoned the idea.

After an hour of shopping they found a café on the little central square and ordered drinks. Looking around, Camille suddenly spotted a colourful top in the window of a shop.

"Oh, I love that!" she exclaimed, then turned to Richard. "Would you mind holding Eva for a few minutes while I go and try it on?"

"Um … well …" was as far as he got before he found his daughter being carefully transferred into his keeping.

"I won't be long" called Camille, as she crossed the road and disappeared into the shop.

Richard sat stiffly, cradling the baby's head in his hand and feeling the strange warmth of her invade his body. Something stirred deep inside; for the first time, he felt she was truly a part of him. After a while she opened her eyes and looked straight up at him.

"Hello, Eva" he said, "I'm your father. That's a funny old word, isn't it?" And he reached out his other hand to tickle her under the chin. She gurgled back at him.

And so it was that Camille, leaving the shop with carrier bag in hand, looked across the square and saw Eva twining her little hand around Richard's finger, while a shy smile played across his face. She stopped. It was such a perfect and unexpected picture that she slipped her phone out of her pocket and took a quick, unseen, photo. She thought about showing it to Richard, but knew he would be embarrassed that he had revealed his softer side, so she decided to keep it for herself – for now, at least.

"I bought it!" she called gaily and held up the carrier bag. "Shall we go back now … Eva will need a feed soon." She thought for a moment. "Why don't _you_ carry her?" Before he could protest he found the baby carrier being placed round his neck. He stood up gingerly, terrified that he might drop or in some way damage the tiny being in his care and edged nervously away from the table.

"Relax, Richard. There's nothing to worry about – just walk normally."

It was not far to the bungalow but to Richard it felt like an eternity. Having a baby pressed close to his chest took some getting used to. He could hear her breathing and feel her heart beating – an experience unlike anything he had known before. But he gradually became accustomed to the additional weight – which was, after all, not very great – and learned not to freak out when anyone came within a yard or two of him and his precious burden. With Camille smiling and encouraging him, they finally made it back to their watery accommodation.

While Camille looked after Eva's needs Richard made some tea and wandered out on to the veranda. He felt exhausted – not just physically (although the time difference was playing havoc with his body clock) but mentally and emotionally. Was this what 'bonding' was all about, he wondered. As he sat the sun sank lower and lower and the sky was suffused with a kaleidoscope of pinks and golds. One thing he had always allowed: Caribbean sunsets were something special, and this one was no exception. It was one of the things that had made living in his shack on the beach in Saint-Marie bearable. He settled down to enjoy the display.

Half an hour later when Camille finally joined him on the veranda she found him slumped in his chair fast asleep. Finally he looked peaceful, as if all the cares in the world had been wiped away. She smiled a little sadly; if only he were like this more often. It was such a shame that he was so ill at ease with the world, so anxious, so buttoned-up. She was well aware of the reasons for this; she knew about the unhappy years at school, the lack of parental warmth, the bullying, the unkindness and ostracism at work and she wished she could wave a magic wand and make it all better for him. Because then he really would be a man to reckon with. But she couldn't, she just had to hope that little by little Eva would bring him out of his shell, and she would of course do all she could to encourage that.

She knew he was jet-lagged, so she let him sleep for a while longer while she made some dinner. She thought he could probably cope with pasta, so she set about making a lasagne, which she would serve with some garlic bread, with ice cream to finish. Nothing too exotic there! She popped the dish in the oven and soon it was bubbling away. There was a nice bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge, so she poured a couple of glasses and went outside.

"Wake up, Richard." She shook him gently and he sat up with a start. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you but you mustn't sleep any longer or you will be awake all night. Here – have a glass of wine with me and then the dinner will be ready."

He took the glass mechanically, still half-asleep. "Sorry, I didn't mean to drop off. Have I been asleep for long?"

"About an hour or so. You were jet-lagged, and it has been a tiring day for you. A lot of new experiences …"

"Yes. I was thinking … I feel I should be supporting you and Eva financially."

"That's kind of you, Richard, but it's not necessary. I have plenty of money. But you can always buy her presents."

"Yes … I suppose so." He sounded dubious. "But it doesn't seem enough. I think … I think I'd like to set up a savings account for her. If I put something in each month, by the time she's grown up it should be enough to pay for her to go to university. Would … would that be OK with you?"

She kissed him on the cheek. "I think it's a lovely idea. Now come and have some dinner."

* * *

Early next morning he woke with the sunrise. Behind the shut bedroom door he could hear Eva's low wail, which he already recognised as the signal for a feed. Camille was managing that side of things very discreetly, for which he was grateful. He knew it was a perfectly natural process, but he was old fashioned enough to find the sight of a woman breastfeeding in public rather embarrassing.

Richard knew that once Eva had settled Camille would try to catch another couple of hours of sleep. He thought she was looking tired, which was hardly surprising given that she was never able to sleep for more than 3 or 4 hours at a time. He himself was wide awake but he forced himself to lie still, so as not to disturb her. He tried reading his book, but found it difficult to concentrate with so many different feelings raging inside him. He had thought he was well prepared for fatherhood, but none of his books had warned him of the emotional toll it would take, especially on such a reserved and repressed man.

Eventually he heard signs of life from the bedroom, so he leapt out of bed, quickly showered, dressed himself in his new clothes and made his way to the kitchen to prepare the breakfast, which he took out onto the veranda. A short while later Camille joined him.

"This is very nice …" She gestured towards the table, neatly laid with everything remotely breakfasty that he had been able to find.

"Well, I thought as you did all the cooking yesterday it was only right …"

She nodded, and they munched in companionable silence, the water lapping gently around them.

"So how are you finding your new clothes?"

"Very strange."

"But cooler?"

"Yes" he replied shortly. Even now, he hated to admit that she had been right all along. She had the grace not to gloat, but smirked a little inwardly.

"Well I think they make you look years younger."

Richard blushed and started to stammer. "Well … I … um …"

"And much more handsome."

Richard knew that this could not be true – this was Camille teasing him as usual. He knew full well that he had never been good-looking; even as a young man he had been no Adonis. He had never been quite tall enough, or lean enough, or chiselled enough or boyish enough to warrant a second glance. So he did what he always did in moments of embarrassment: he changed the subject.

"I have to be at the airport by six this evening, so what would you like to do for the rest of the day?"

"Well, I was hoping to have a spa treatment this morning, if you don't mind keeping an eye on Eva. My poor old body has been through the mill and could do with a bit of pampering. I'll only be a couple of hours and she should sleep all the time."

"Yes, that's fine. I'll sit and read my book. And then I'd like to take you to lunch at that restaurant on the beach."

She smiled. "That would be lovely. I'll give Eva a quick feed and then I'll go and get ready for my massage."

An hour later, Richard settled himself on the balcony with his book, having checked that Eva was sleeping soundly. It was actually very pleasant. Yes, it was still hot, but sitting in the shade in appropriate clothing and with a cooling breeze blowing off the water, he began to get the smallest understanding of what people saw in the Caribbean.

He checked his watch: another hour until Camille was due back. Suddenly he heard a whimper, then another. He ignored it, hoping Eva would quickly go back to sleep. But Eva had other ideas – the whimper became a wail and the wail soon became a yell.

Richard was beside himself – Camille had _promised_ him she wouldn't stir … well, virtually. It just wasn't fair. He went into the bedroom and clinically observed his crying daughter. By this time she was red in the face and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. He knew he had to do something … but what?

Tentatively he picked the child up, and it became immediately apparent what was wrong: she was wet. Now Richard had never changed a nappy in his life. He had skipped that bit in the books and had averted his eyes whenever Camille did it. But he was going to have to try.

Suddenly he had a brainwave. He rushed to his laptop and searched on U-Tube. There were bound to be videos. There were – dozens of them. Feverishly he flicked through several until he felt he had grasped the basic principles, with Eva's crying getting ever more desperate.

 _If I can do forensic experiments in my kitchen, I can surely change a nappy – it's not all that different._

And somehow he managed it – not very expertly, but he did it. Then he picked her up and rocked her back and forth until miraculously the tears subsided into the odd hiccup, and she heaved a sigh and fell back asleep. Silently congratulating himself on successfully averting a crisis, he poured himself a large glass of wine and collapsed back into his chair, exhausted. It had been another learning experience, something else to add to his quite limited skill-set.

When Camille returned refreshed and reinvigorated he casually mentioned that Eva had needed her nappy changing. She shot him a surprised glance but made no comment, and quickly went to check that all was well. Secretly she was quite impressed – she hadn't thought he would be capable - but she wasn't going to let on. He still had a long way to go, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good morning, Sir" Sergeant Graham called cheerily as Richard strode down the corridor on Tuesday morning towards the small cubicle which served as his office. "Good weekend?"

"Yes, thank you" said Richard, thinking with a touch of surprise that for once his normally trite response to such questions was true. "Very good. Er … and you?"

"Oh, you know, the little one is teething, so it was a bit stressful, but it's always good to spend time with the family."

"Mm … yes. Well, can you get the team together and give me an update on developments over the last few days, please. My office, fifteen minutes."

"Very good, Sir."

He hung up his coat, emptied his briefcase and switched on his pc to catch up with any emails. He opened the drawer of his desk for a jelly baby, and there staring up at him was the face of his daughter. He picked up the photo and absent-mindedly dusted it with his finger. Yes, it had been a surprisingly good weekend. Before he set off he had admitted to considerable trepidation, but actually it had gone very well. The meeting with Eva had not been a disaster, and Camille … well, he had never spent so much time with Camille outside of work and he was amazed at how much he had enjoyed her company.

And most remarkable of all, they hadn't really argued or fallen out. Yes, she had teased and lectured him a little, but compared to some of their spectacular rows in the past it was nothing. She had been amusing, warm, understanding and generally all-round good company, and he had quite forgotten that she was French. _Half_ -French.

Their final lunch at the restaurant had been a success; the food was good and Eva had slept throughout so they were able to talk without interruption. What had they talked about? He couldn't quite remember but the time had flown by most pleasantly and before he knew it it was time to settle up and get ready to leave for the airport.

And then of course there was Eva, who gurgled and wriggled and wouldn't let go of his finger. Richard was very much afraid that against all his hard-won principles he had left a tiny piece of his heart with Eva. He took one more look at the photo in his hand and went to replace it in the drawer. Then he hesitated. A daring thought had occurred to him. Was it time to be brave? He thought about it some more and then, with a feeling of nervous excitement, he stood the photo on his desk, in full view. It was probably the most provocative thing he had ever done in his life. He heard footsteps approaching his office, snatched the photo up in a panic, then forced himself to put it back on the desk. There was a sharp rap on the door. "Come in!" he called, in what he hoped was a steady voice.

There were only three other members of Richard's team and they had difficulty squeezing into the tiny space. Apart from Sergeant Graham, there was a young and ambitious DC and Sue Jenkins, a WPC in her late forties who had returned to work a few years before after raising a family. Since the weekend had yielded little by way of developments in their current case load, the session did not take long. Richard digested what his team had to report, thought for a while then gave some brief and succinct orders and sent them on their way.

Sue Jenkins paused on her way out. "Can I bring you some tea, Sir?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you, Sue."

She returned a couple of minutes later and plonked a steaming mug on his desk.

"Here you are, Sir. Oh, what a gorgeous little baby! Who is he? Or is it a she?"

Richard hesitated. Of course, as a junior member of the team he could just tell her that it was none of her business. But he liked Sue and didn't want to snub her. On the other hand …

"It's a she. She … um … she is the daughter of … er …" He took a deep breath and took the plunge. "Actually she's my daughter."

WPC Jenkins was truly astonished. She had never heard her boss mention any family or a partner, so this really was a bolt from the blue.

"Gosh … that really is a surprise. Congratulations, Sir, she looks absolutely adorable." She knew better than to pry into her boss's private live so she edged towards the door. Fortunately, at that point Richard's phone rang, so he gave her a quick nod of dismissal and she scuttled away down the corridor.

No doubt she would waste no time in spreading the news, Richard thought gloomily, but it was too late now- the die was cast. He reflected that his WPC was the first person he had told about Eva. Of course he knew that he should have informed his parents by now that they had a grandchild, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. He could just imagine the conversation …

 _But that's wonderful, darling. I didn't even know you had a girlfriend._

 _I didn't, it was just a drunken one-night stand the day before I left the island._

He could just imagine his father's disappointed and disapproving stare. No, he wouldn't be saying anything to his parents just yet.

* * *

Camille settled back in her seat for the short flight back to Honoré. Eva had finally dropped off to sleep after succumbing to a major tantrum back at the airport. _Just like her father!_ thought Camille – there was obviously something about the Poole family and airports. All in all, though, she was happy with the way the weekend had gone. To be honest, she hadn't had great expectations; she knew that Richard had no experience with children and was prepared for difficulties along the way. And she suspected that being in such close proximity in a non-work environment would prove too much for the two of them and culminate in one of their fiery rows.

But it had turned out quite differently. Richard was clearly making an effort to bond with his daughter, and that made it easier for her to accept some of his idiosyncracies without more than the occasional rolling of the eyes or shrug of the shoulders. She had always known that he could be good company when he put his mind to it, although in the beginning it had taken time for her to tune in to his ironic sense of humour. But now he frequently made her laugh with his sarcastic running commentary on the many trials and tribulations of life, as perceived by one R Poole.

She took out her phone and scrolled through the images to find the secret photo she had taken of Richard with Eva. Yes, she should definitely try to get him to smile more often. He had made some progress this weekend: he had eaten different food and worn some more sensible clothes, and that was surely a good start. When she told him the casual clothes made him look younger and more handsome, she honestly hadn't been teasing him. True, he would never be a heartthrob but when he abandoned his habitual stiff formality and let the breeze ruffle his normally slicked down hair, he really wasn't at all bad-looking.

The plane was descending already and soon landed. Camille gathered her belongings together, hoping that her mother would be at the airport to meet her as promised. Clearing customs and collecting baggage in such a small island didn't take long and soon she was in the concourse, waving to Catherine who was in deep conversation with a woman trying to transport a crate of chickens.

"Hello, _chérie_ , did you have a good time?"

"Yes, it was lovely and restful. I swam in the sea and had a heavenly massage."

Catherine forbore to point out that she could have done both of those things on Saint-Marie. She knew there was more to Camille's weekend away than met the eye; she suspected that her daughter had been meeting someone, presumably the father. Although consumed with curiosity Catherine had no intention of asking prying questions as she didn't wish to be lied to or to force her daughter's confidence, and she knew perfectly well that Camille would tell her when she was ready. So she picked up the luggage and led the way to the car without further comment.

* * *

Back in London, about three months later, WPC Jenkins and Sergeant Graham were gathered round the coffee machine, waiting as the brown liquid dripped slowly into the cups. The door opened and Richard strode briskly into the room, bearing a sheaf of papers covered with yellow post-it notes, which he left on the sergeant's desk.

"I think it's all self-explanatory" he called, as he made for the door.

"Would you like some coffee, Sir?"

"No thanks, I'm a bit pushed for time." He shot back up the corridor to his own office.

"What's got into him? I know he's going on leave tomorrow, but he's not usually like this – like a cat on a hot tin roof! Something must be up!"

"I asked him if he was going somewhere nice and he said no, he was staying at home, so I really don't know what's going on. But I'd better have a look at the notes he's left me, or there will be trouble." They dispersed and went their separate ways.

Richard was indeed agitated. He had never been a clock-watcher but all afternoon he had been looking at his watch and checking the flight arrivals at Heathrow. It was ridiculous and he knew it: they weren't due to arrive until 6.30 and wouldn't be through baggage reclaim and Customs until 7.30 so he had plenty of time to get to the airport. But his mind kept wandering and he just couldn't focus on anything else. It was, after all, the first time that Camille and Eva had been to visit him in the UK.

Over the weeks that had passed since his trip to Antigua they had continued to Skype most Sundays. Camille kept him well stocked with photos and videos but it was not quite the same as being there in person the first time Eva rolled onto her stomach or stretched out her hand for a favourite toy. He hadn't minded missing the beginning of the teething process though, which Camille assured him had been - and was continuing to be - very noisy.

They had thought hard about this trip. Richard had been worried that the long flight would be too much for Eva but in the end Camille had found an overnight departure to Paris which meant that, with luck, Eva would sleep for much of the journey. Fortunately, she could now normally be relied on to sleep through the night, so Camille was optimistic that all would be well.

Richard took another look at the photo on his desk. Eva would have developed quite a bit since the last time he saw her. He had other photos of her, of course, but this first one meant something special, so he had not replaced it. Since that conversation with Sue Jenkins all those weeks ago virtually every member of staff had found an excuse to pop into his office and take a quick glance at the famous photo. He had known this would happen, of course, but somewhat to his surprise he found that he didn't mind – in fact, he was rather proud to be known as the parent of such a lovely baby. _Well,_ he thought grimly, _at least it has given them something to talk about. Perhaps they might not view me as quite such a stick-in-the-mud now._

The afternoon wore on endlessly but eventually it was time to go. His desk was tidy, he had briefed his team fully on all the ongoing cases and handed over the paperwork. Sue Jenkins wished him a happy holiday, he picked up his coat and brief case and then he was gone, rushing to the tube. He had to get home, pick up the car and then drive to the airport to meet Camille. As he drove up the road he realised that his heart was pounding, and not from exertion – he was excited at the prospect of seeing them again. Excitement was an unfamiliar and unsettling emotion, and he had to make a conscious effort to calm down, less his driving was affected.

Of course he was early at the airport – too early for the short pick-up zone so he had to park in the multi-storey. _That's a week's salary gone_ he thought grumpily. Airport car parking was one of his favourite topics and it didn't take much to induce a full-on rant. But that probably wasn't what Camille would want to hear after her long journey, so he buttoned down his frustration and resolved to just pay up and say nothing.

The connecting flight from Paris had just landed when he arrived, so he had quite a long wait. The doors continually opened, disgorging travellers from every part of the world, but the time wore on and there was no sign of Camille. He knew she was on the flight because she had texted from the departure lounge, but even by Heathrow's standards she was taking a long time to come through. _No doubt they have lost her luggage_ thought Richard morosely. It was too much to expect it to turn up in the right place at the right time after a journey that had involved a flight transfer.

Then suddenly there she was, pushing a trolley, with Eva securely strapped to her chest. Richard heaved a sigh of relief and experienced an unfamiliar feeling of elation.

"Sorry to be so long, there was an enormous queue at Immigration."

"They never have enough staff on. Honestly, I know there have been budget cuts, but you'd think …"

" _Richard_ " she interrupted decisively, "I didn't come here for one of your rants. Take the luggage and let's get out of here."

"Sorry" he muttered, "I hate airports, they always seem to wind me up." He led the way to the car park and carefully loaded Eva into the car seat which he had fitted. Of course he had researched it carefully to make sure that it met all the safety regulations.

"So how was the journey?"

"It was OK, actually. Eva slept most of the way to Paris, and I managed to get one of the folding cribs they have on the long haul planes. And as it wasn't full I had 3 seats to myself so I was able to get a few hours' sleep. She had a bit of a screaming fit before we landed and I felt very guilty for the other passengers but I fed and changed her so it didn't last too long – and no-one actually complained!"

Richard shuddered. The perils of travelling with children. He had been a victim himself on several occasions of the child who wouldn't stop crying for hours and hours and now he always took ear plugs with him on flights.

Shortly afterwards they arrived at his house, which was a small Victorian terrace. He had thought long and hard about the sleeping arrangements and had come to the conclusion that the only solution was to give up his own room to Camille and Eva. It gave him a very strange feeling to think of Camille sleeping in his bed, but as his second bedroom was really only a box room and was used to store some of his bulkier possessions, such as the precision optical instrument, he really didn't think there was enough space to accommodate both Camille and Eva. So he had cleared out all his personal stuff and installed a brand new cot by the side of the bed.

Actually, he had been on quite a shopping spree. He had told Camille not to worry about bringing lots of baby equipment with her, that he would provide everything she needed. After all, if things went according to plan, this would only be the first of a number of visits so it made sense to get set up.

Every day on his way to and from work he walked past a branch of Mothercare, and for weeks he had slowed down as he passed and cast surreptitious glances inside the shop. He tried to summon the courage to go in, but every time he looked all he could see were young couples, or women on their own; there were never any single men. Besides that, he might be seen by someone he knew, and that would be endlessly embarrassing, so Mothercare remained firmly unvisited and he resorted as normal to the internet. He found some useful sites listing everything a baby would need, and then set about his usual meticulous research. Because he insisted on the very highest safety standards and specifications, he ended up spending probably twice as much as necessary, but he was satisfied with what he had bought and hoped that Camille would approve of his choices.

He ushered her into the bedroom and with a vague gesture indicated everything that he had laid out for her. As well as the cot with its bedding, there was a play mat with an arch, to which he had attached some colourful mobiles, a baby rocker, a changing mat with nappies and wipes, a bath with some towels and a smart reclining stroller in charcoal grey with a red hood and trim. Camille could barely take it all in.

"I hope it's … OK" he mumbled.

"Richard, it's fantastic. It's far more than I have at home!"

"Well … er … you know …"

"And I just love this stroller. _Maman_ dug out the old pram she used to wheel me around in and we cleaned it up and put some new bedding in, and it's great … very retro … but I don't have anything like this. I can't wait to take Eva out in it!"

"Well, it folds up quite small, so you could take it home with you on the plane, if you like, and I'll get another one for your next visit."

" _Really?_ That would be wonderful but it's a lot of extra expense for you …"

"Well you said I could buy her presents, didn't you? So that's agreed. I'll leave you to get settled in and then we can have a bit of supper. I've fixed up a baby alarm, so you can leave her in here without worrying" And he went off to the kitchen.

It didn't take long for Camille to unpack, because most of her luggage was in fact Eva's. The child was still in mid-nap so she lay her down in the cot, and looked round the room. It was fairly spacious but sparsely furnished with just a built-in wardrobe, a wicker chair and a bedside table. No pictures, no ornaments, no photos – all quite austere and nothing at all personal. Richard said he had cleared some space in the wardrobe so she opened the door. Neatly lined up hung a selection of his suits, the hangars all carefully spaced and facing the same direction. He had cleared a couple of shelves for her, but the others contained a pile of white shirts, washed, pressed and carefully folded and some woollen jumpers. A dozen or so ties – all very sober – hung on the inside of the door. There was no sign of any underwear – that had clearly all been removed.

She ran her hand over a couple of the suits. They had a faint musky smell that she remembered very well from the years on Saint-Marie, and she sniffed them deeply. It was amazing how evocative a scent could be. Giving herself a quick mental shake, she speedily stowed what little she had brought with her, feeling rather like an intruder in Richard's life, and went out to join him in the kitchen.

He was busy preparing an omelette. He wasn't a great cook, but providing he stuck to simple, basic things he was perfectly competent. There was a bowl of salad already on the table, and some chips were in the oven. Camille suddenly felt ravenous.

"I'll need to make up a feed for Eva, before she goes to bed. Do you have a big saucepan so I can boil her bottle?"

"Yes, but there's a steriliser over there which I got for you."

"A steriliser too! Oh Richard, you must have spent a fortune on all this!"

"Well, what's the point of money if you don't spend it when you need to?" He watched while she got the steriliser and bottle ready and boiled a kettle of water.

"By the time we've eaten the water will be the right temperature. I'll wake Eva up and put her on the play mat for a while before I give her the feed."

"How is she sleeping these days?"

"Well, most of the time she sleeps through the night now, though I sometimes still have to give her a feed around 1 o'clock. It's certainly a lot easier than it used to be! Today her routine has been disrupted, so I'm not sure how she will be, but on the whole she's happy if she has a routine to follow", adding with a sly sideways glance "rather like her papa!"

He snorted. "There's nothing wrong with a routine, I'll have you know. It gives structure to the day."

"But maybe I don't always want my days to be structured – there's no room for sudden ideas, for impulses …"

"Well, personally I've always mistrusted impulses – they can lead you in completely the wrong direction."

She smiled wickedly. "But you know if it hadn't been for one of your 'impulses' Eva wouldn't be here at all and we wouldn't be having this conversation!"

He flushed scarlet. There was really no answer to that, so he turned his attention back to the cooker and stirred the omelette vigorously. "Ready in two minutes!" he called.

Camille fetched the play mat from the bedroom and placed a slightly protesting Eva on to the middle of it. The little girl was instantly fascinated by the colourful mobiles Richard had hung on the frame and reached her hands out to them, as he came into the sitting room bearing two steaming plates.

Camille nodded in the direction of the mobiles. "They should keep her quiet while we eat. Mmmm … it smells good."

"Sorry, it's only simple fare …"

"No matter, I'm starving, I could eat a horse!"

Richard produced a bottle of red wine and poured two glasses. "To a successful visit?"

"To a successful visit." She took a gulp, then paused, savouring the taste quizzically. "Is this by any chance a mature rioja?"

"It might be."

She laughed. "Well, I forgive you – after 9 months of pregnancy and nearly 5 months of motherhood I definitely feel a lot more 'mature' than I did back then!"

They quickly cleared their plates, and then Richard produced a dessert. "I can't claim to have made this, but I thought you should try a typically English dish."

"She prodded the pile in front of her suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Bread and butter pudding. Perfect for a chilly autumn day. Try it."

She nibbled a spoonful. "Quite an interesting texture. Much heavier than the sort of puddings the French normally serve. But I quite like it."

"We have a lot of heavy puddings here – probably because we have such a cold and damp climate."

"Oh yes, there's one I have heard of. Can you make … how do you say it? … spotty dick? What on earth is that?"

"Spotted dick. It's a kind of suet pudding with currants and raisins, served with custard. No, I can't make it but they have it at the supermarket so I'll get some for you to try. You probably won't like it, though – it's _really_ heavy!"

He cleared away, washed up and produced some coffee while Camille prepared Eva's bottle.

"Why did you change to a bottle?"

"Well, I breast-fed her for the first 3 or 4 months, but I shall be going back to work when she's six months old, so the baby minder needs to be able to feed her, and _maman_ too, when she looks after her, so I decided to make a gradual transition."

"You're going back to work so soon?"

"Yes, in about 6 weeks, but only part-time – just 3 days a week to start with."

"And have you found a child minder? I thought your mother was going to help?"

"Well she does when she is able, but she has a business to run so I can't expect her to do it all the time. And before you ask, yes, I have checked out the baby minder. She is fully qualified, registered, approved, insured and has excellent references. I spoke to some of the mothers myself, so there is nothing to worry about. Eva will be fine with her."

"Mmm." Richard tried hard not to sound disapproving but he couldn't help it; he really didn't like the thought of his daughter being looked after by a stranger, however competent and experienced. He knew Camille was a devoted mother but he knew also that she was ambitious – being a stay-at-home mum was not for her. She talked gaily about the new mothers' clubs and playgroups that she now belonged to and seemed genuinely to enjoy them, but he knew that over time it wouldn't be enough for her and she would become frustrated. Going back to work was clearly the right move for her.

Camille settled herself in a chair and began the feed. Eva drank greedily and the bottle was soon empty. Camille called to Richard to prepare the bath while she winded Eva and asked him to support her head as she gently washed their daughter and dressed her in her sleepsuit ready for bed.

"If she wakes, I'll give her a small bottle during the night, but otherwise she should sleep until the 7 o'clock feed. Fingers crossed! I could do with a good rest myself – it has been a very long day."

She did look tired, Richard thought. They went back to the sitting room and drank their coffee whilst catching up with news of mutual acquaintances. Richard switched on the television, as there was a nature programme about the Caribbean. It was interesting and the photography was amazing, but Camille felt her eyelids closing after about 20 minutes. She sat up with a start when she realised that her head had dropped onto Richard's shoulder.

"Sorry, it's just that I can't seem to keep my eyes open. If you don't mind, I think I'll have an early night. Then tomorrow I'd like to try out that stroller – is there a park nearby that we could go round?"

"Well, there's Hampstead Heath, which isn't actually a park but there are lots of paths, and it's only about 10 minutes' walk from here."

"Great – let's do that tomorrow morning. There's no need to rush about – I'm here for nearly a whole week, after all. But now I'm going to turn in. Goodnight, Richard."

"Goodnight, Camille. Sleep well."


	5. Chapter 5

Richard finished the programme on the Caribbean, then watched the news. He picked up a book and tried to read but gave up after a few pages as his mind just would not concentrate. There were no sounds emanating from the bedroom, so he assumed both Camille and Eva were asleep. _Might as well go on to bed then,_ he thought.

It was strange sleeping in the box room; he had never done it before because on the few occasions that his parents had come to visit (and they were his _only_ visitors) they preferred to stay in a small hotel just up the road. But he quickly settled and soon was fast asleep.

A couple of hours later he stirred; something had disturbed him. He listened hard and, yes, that was it – he could hear Eva crying. The wall between the two bedrooms was not very thick and soon he could also make out the sound of Camille moving around. Then the door opened and he heard her make her way to the kitchen, where she was clearly going to prepare a feed. It all took some time, but eventually she returned to the bedroom and peace was restored for a while. But only for a while: Eva was fretful and miserable _(another tooth coming through?)_ and Richard could feel rather than hear Camille walking up and down, up and down, murmuring and singing to try to lull the little girl back to sleep. And finally she succeeded. Richard looked at his alarm clock – it was now 2.30 in the morning. With a sigh, he turned over and dropped off almost immediately.

In the tangled and confused dreams that plagued him that night, he kept hearing the sound of a child crying. Eventually the dream became so vivid that he awoke in a cold sweat and sat up in bed, his heart hammering beneath his winceyette pajamas. But then he realised: it _wasn't_ a dream – he really could hear crying. Poor Eva was not having a happy time.

He waited for Camille to stir, but there was no sign of her getting up. Eva's crying increased. _I must do something,_ he thought. He swung his legs out of bed and thrust them into the leather slippers that were always neatly lined up ready for him in the morning, slipped on the dressing gown that was hanging behind the door and crept quietly out onto the landing. He listened carefully at Camille's door but still could detect no sign that she was attending to Eva. He knocked gently and called her name, but still no response.

So there was nothing for it. He didn't like violating her privacy but he could no longer ignore the wails that were emanating from his daughter. Perhaps Camille was unwell? He pushed open the door as quietly as he could and tiptoed into the bedroom. Camille didn't _look_ ill, she just looked exhausted – too tired for her daughter's cries to disturb her.

Richard reached into the cot, picked Eva up and crept back outside. He checked the time – it was gone 7 so she was clearly due another feed. He made his way downstairs, lay the child down on the play mat and went into the kitchen to prepare her feed. He had watched Camille carefully the previous evening so he knew exactly what to do. While waiting for the boiled water to cool sufficiently, he collected a fresh nappy and changed her, feeling a little smug at now being able to do this without reference or guidance.

Some time after eight thirty Camille slowly woke up. She came to gradually, yawning and stretching like a kitten. It had been such a lovely sleep, and she felt warm and comfortable. Drowsily she reached for her phone – it must be nearly time to feed Eva again. She stared uncomprehendingly at the numbers: 8.42 am. It couldn't be – the feed was due at 7! She looked around wildly and saw the empty cot. Someone had taken Eva! She panicked for a few seconds before realising that of course it must have been Richard.

She leapt out of bed and ran quickly down the stairs, conscious that she could hear voices. Actually just one voice: Richard's. She stopped just outside the door of the sitting-room.

" _Powers to stop and search must be used fairly, responsibly, with respect for people being searched and without unlawful discrimination. Under the Equality Act 2010, section 149, when police officers are carrying out their functions, they also have a duty to have due regard to the need to eliminate unlawful discrimination, harassment and victimisation, to advance equality of opportunity between people who share a 'relevant protected characteristic' and people who do not share it, and to take steps to foster good relations between those persons (see Notes 1 and 1A)."_

She peered round the door. Richard was sitting on the sofa, Eva in the crook of his arm, and reading from a book spread open on his knee. The little girl was chortling happily and waving her arms and feet around.

" _The Children Act 2004, section 11, also requires chief police officers …"_

"You're reading her the Police Code of Practice …?"

He looked up. "It doesn't make any difference – she doesn't understand a word."

"Well, you certainly seem to have the knack. It must be something to do with the tone of your voice or the scent of your body – I spent hours last night trying to calm her down. Next time I'll just ask you!"

"Well, she was crying and you were obviously exhausted, so I've changed and fed her and she seems OK now."

"Thank you, Richard. I do appreciate it, and I'm sorry I overslept."

He waved his arms dismissively, as if baby-minding was something he did every day of his life. "Perhaps you should … er … put some clothes on …?"

Camille blushed, realising that she was still in just a flimsy nightdress. "Good idea, then I'll get some breakfast and we can plan the day."

Later that morning they set out for Hampstead Heath, with Eva firmly strapped into her smart new stroller. It was early December but the autumn had been mild and the last leaves were still on the trees, shining like beaten gold in the watery sunshine.

"It's one of the things I really love about Europe – the changing of the seasons. Saint-Marie is my home and I love it of course, but the climate is similar all the year round, apart from hurricane season, and you don't see the trees turn autumnal, lose their leaves and then burst forth again in the spring."

"I know, I really missed it when I was there. But we're lucky today, it's dry and quite mild for the time of year. Personally I love the fine rain, but it's not ideal for a walk in the park, especially with a little one."

He suddenly spotted something. "Oh quick, turn around."

"What is it?"

"It's my Detective Sergeant, with his wife and toddler. This way, or they'll see us."

"Why is that an issue? I thought you said they know about Eva at the station."

"Yes they do, but they don't know about you!"

"And is that a problem? Are you ashamed of me, Richard?"

"No of course not, it's just that … oh well, here they are."

"Good morning, Sir – lovely morning for a walk!" called Sergeant Graham. "This is my wife Louise and my boy Spencer."

"Oh … er … pleased to meet you. This … this is … um … Eva and … er … Camille."

"What a gorgeous baby!" Louise Graham bent over the stroller.

"Thank you. Yes, I think she's gorgeous too. But then I'm her mother, so I would! How old is your little boy?"

"He's just over a year old now, and full of mischief." Sergeant Graham nodded in Richard's direction. "Just wait until she starts walking, Sir … then you'll know it!"

The two couples exchanged a few more pleasantries then went their separate ways. _Well, that's it, it will be all over the station by coffee time on Monday_ , thought Richard. Somewhat to his surprise, he found that it didn't really worry him that much. Actually, when he thought about it properly, he was rather proud to be seen with Camille; she would certainly enhance his standing with his colleagues, and he had no objection to that at all.

They continued their walk, visiting the various lakes and ponds, admiring the wild fowl and stopping for lunch at the little café. Then Richard offered to look after Eva for the afternoon so Camille could do a little shopping while she was in London. He saw her to the tube station, then walked home, smiling to himself when he caught his reflection in a shop window – a middle aged man pushing a baby in a stroller. A year ago it would have been unthinkable. Even a month or two ago he would have worried about being seen by his neighbours in such a 'compromising' situation. Now he felt like knocking on all their doors so they could see what a beautiful daughter he had.

He thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon with Eva. Camille had given him instructions about when she was due to feed and nap, and he had no problem in following them. While she was awake he put her in the baby rocker or propped her up with cushions on the play mat – she was already trying to sit on her own. She made grabs for the mobiles, loved her rattle and then as he bent over her she became fascinated by his tie. She grasped it firmly in her fat little hand and refused to let it go. He remained her prisoner, forced to lie on the floor with her, which is how Camille found them when she returned from shopping, laden with carrier bags.

She laughed. "Let me undo the knot, then you can get up." He suddenly shivered as he felt her hands round his neck, fiddling with the tie and then pulling it free. Apart from the odd peck on the cheek, it was the first time they had touched properly since the night Eva was conceived, and pleasurable memories came flooding back. But the moment soon passed and Camille was chattering about what she had brought, pulling items out of bags to show him.

"I don't know how I'm going to get everything back in my luggage – I might have to buy a bigger suitcase! Here, what do you think about this? Do you think _maman_ will like this scarf?"

He said what he hoped were the right things. Eva, meanwhile, decided to appropriate the tie and tried to stuff it in her mouth. By the time the tie had been rescued, they were both laughing, and it was time for Eva's final feed, change, bath and bed.

The night was mercifully uneventful and Sunday dawned crisp and cold, with grey sheeting rain. Not the day for walking in the park, so Richard decided to teach Camille how to make a roast dinner. He really couldn't understand how the French managed without a Sunday joint, with crispy roast potatoes, vegetables and gravy. Camille tried to explain that for the French, Sunday lunch was just as sacred as for the British but it was simply a different culture and a different style of cooking. In the end they agreed to compromise: Richard would prepare roast beef and Yorkshire pudding ("and then tomorrow we can have it cold with bubble and squeak". "Bubble and squeak – what on earth is that?" "You'll see."), and Camille would cook French food when he was in the Caribbean.

"So why is it called a pudding? I thought puddings were for dessert …?" Under Richard's direction, Camille was vigorously beating a bowl of batter.

"I don't really know."

She rolled her eyes melodramatically. "Just imagine, Eva, there's something your papa doesn't know! Who'd have thought?"

Richard harrumphed. "Did I tell you to stop beating? And have you got the fat hot enough? It has to sizzle when you pour the batter in. All I know is, they used to put the pudding underneath the joint so all the juices would drip into it, then they would serve it as a first course to fill people up so they wouldn't eat too much of the meat."

"How mean-spirited!"

"Not at all, for the poor people it was very sensible – they couldn't afford much meat and Yorkshire Pudding is a real filler."

"Well it seems to be something like a cross between a crêpe and a soufflé, but I can't really imagine serving either of those as the accompaniment to a joint of beef. You English do have some strange ideas ..!"

"Well just wait until you've tasted it before you pass judgment. I'm making some lovely onion gravy to go with it. And I'll just check on the roast potatoes."

"We never do potatoes in the oven like that, we tend to sauté or steam them – it's much lighter."

"Yes, well, I like sauté potatoes as much as the next man, but for a Sunday dinner they just have to be roasted. Nothing else will do. Now, if you've finished beating pour the batter into the holes in the tray and they should be ready in about 20 minutes."

Camille obediently followed his instructions and set the vegetables to cook while Richard looked after the carving of the meat. Privately, she thought it was a lot of trouble for one meal, however nice, and she thought the French way of cooking a main course with only one or two accompaniments was much easier. But she knew the Sunday roast was sacred to Richard, so she kept her views to herself.

And in fact the meal was very enjoyable, if considerably heavier than she was used to at lunch-time. She had never eaten anything like the pudding with the onion gravy, but she agreed it was extremely tasty (even though she wouldn't want it every week). The potatoes too were delicious and crispy, although again they were much heavier than she was used to. She drew the line at the horseradish sauce, however.

"Ouf! I'm so full I could burst. I won't be able to eat another thing for the rest of the day. But there are lots of potatoes and vegetables left over – we made much too much."

"No we didn't – they are for the bubble and squeak tomorrow!"

"Another weirdly named English dish!"

"Yes, but this one is onomatopoeic."

She looked at him quizzically. "The name describes exactly what it does", he explained. "You'll see."

And that was as much as he was prepared to say. They quickly loaded all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and retired to the sitting-room with the remains of the wine. The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to the rain lashing down as they chatted and digested their meal while Eva napped in her baby rocker. Then it was play time, feed time, bath time and bed time for the little girl and before they knew it the evening was upon them.

Richard switched on the television – Sunday night was his favourite viewing time and his favourite programme: Antiques Road Show. Camille watched him watching Fiona Bruce, and now she entirely understood why the brief glimpse of her he had obtained in his shack on Saint-Marie had made him so homesick. Both programme and host were so typically British: safe, comfortable, middle-class and non-threatening. And Fiona, with her expensive knitwear, was certainly no bimbo for ogling.

Somewhat to her surprise Camille found herself being drawn into the programme, exclaiming when some artefact she liked was presented and disparaging the ones that didn't appeal to her at all. She discovered that she and Richard had much the same view on the desirability or otherwise of the items under discussion, and they started a competition to guess what estimate the expert was going to put on each one. It was surprisingly good fun; Richard crowed when he got closest and Camille shrieked when it was her turn to win.

"I never knew antiques could be so interesting", she said when the programme finished.

"Well, there's an antiques market every Monday not all that far from here. If you like, we could pay it a visit tomorrow, assuming that the weather has improved by then?"

"I'd like that very much – what a good idea. We could try and buy something for Eva for when she is a bit older."

In the end they settled on a teddy – not terribly old and worn, but cuddly and very appealing. Growing up in the Caribbean, Camille had never owned a bear, and in fact had had very few cuddly toys. Richard had fond memories of the teddy who had been the companion of his early years.

"He had lost an ear – I think the dog chewed it off – and his squeak had stopped working, but he was my friend. I used to talk to him every night at bed-time."

"How sweet! Do you still have him?"

"No, I had to leave him behind when I went off to boarding-school and when I got home in the holidays he was nowhere to be found. I think mum and dad must have thrown him away."

"How sad. I bet you missed him?"

"Yes, I did of course, but I was seven by then and really too old for teddies – well, that's what mum and dad said, anyway. I got over it."

Camille suddenly became fixated on the idea of buying something for Richard, as a thank you for everything he had provided for her and Eva. She urged him to suggest something he would like.

"Look, there are lots of stalls and shops here, there _must_ be something that appeals!"

But Richard was clueless. He wasn't used to being given anything that wasn't socks or a tie and try as he might he just couldn't come up with anything. In the end he gestured despairingly at the rows of stalls.

"You go on your own and choose something, and I'll sit in that café over there with Eva and have a cup of tea. Surprise me!"

She didn't think he was the sort of man who really enjoyed surprises, but she acquiesced. Leaving him in charge of the stroller she sped off for another quick tour round the market, looking for inspiration. Twenty minutes later she was back, clasping a fairly large rectangular parcel.

"What is it?" he asked curiously.

"Wait and see! I'll give it to you when we get home. Now order me some coffee, please."

Later that afternoon she watched eagerly as Richard unwrapped his parcel. Had she chosen well? Would he like it? She felt she knew him so much better these days but this was still the first gift she had ever bought him and it mattered to her that it was well received.

Richard smoothed away the last piece of paper and gazed at what Camille had bought for him. It was a hallmarked silver Victorian photograph frame, with an embossed ribbon and garland pattern, stylish and elegant without being too busy and fussy as so much Victoriana was.

"I hope you like it", she said a little nervously, "I thought that as we will be flying home in a couple of days you might like to put your favourite photo of Eva in it."

Richard was deeply touched. "It's lovely, Camille, thank you."

"You really like it?"

"I really like it."

She realised that she had been holding her breath, and let out a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness, I was quite worried!" Richard smiled, but then his eyes clouded.

"So we only have one more full day left. What would you like to do?"

She thought for a moment. "Well, there _is_ something I would like to do. You remember the night of the hurricane, when we were stuck in the university?"

Richard nodded. As if he could ever forget that night!

"Well, you talked about your childhood holidays in … where was it?"

"Clacton-on-Sea."

Yes, Clacton-on-Sea. You promised that if I ever came to England you would take me there. So let's go there on my last day."


	6. Chapter 6

"So what made your parents choose Clacton for their holiday?" Camille asked as they branched off onto the A133.

"I don't really know. By the early 70s, when we were there, it was certainly in decline as a seaside resort. Its heyday was in the 20s and 30s, and then again in the 50s. By the 70s most people were taking package holidays to Spain and Majorca."

"But there must have been some reason for it? Didn't they want to go anywhere more exotic?"

"The words _exotic_ and _my parents_ don't exactly go together. I'm not sure they even have passports. British through and through."

"Like you."

"Like me", he agreed. "But I _do_ have a passport." He thought for a while. "I think it was nostalgia on my father's part. He was born just before the war and grew up in an age of austerity. His own father died when he was quite young and I think it was something of a struggle for my grandmother. When she could afford it she used to rent a caravan for a week by the seaside, and one year they went to Clacton. I think it must have been a high spot in a somewhat bleak existence, and so he remembered it with the rosy glow of nostalgia. I guess that's why we came here for several years in a row, even though it had changed a lot since his day."

"And now _you_ remember it with the rosy glow of nostalgia. Even when it poured with rain!"

"Yes, I suppose so. Of course it didn't rain _all_ the time, but I didn't mind – there was always plenty to do in those days."

They drew up close to the sea front and parked the car. The sea was something between an iron grey and the colour of sludge and there was a keen breeze blowing. But at least it wasn't raining. Camille wrapped Eva up warmly and installed her in the stroller and they set off to explore.

"But it's a sandy beach!" She was astonished, having expected shingle at best and large pebbles at worse.

"There's no need to be so surprised – there are plenty of sandy beaches in England. Actually this is one of the best."

"But you don't like sand! And yet this is where you spent your holidays …!"

"It's precisely _because_ I spent my holidays here that I don't like sand", he explained patiently. "Our caravan was right by the sea, and the wind used to blow the sand inside. It got into _everything_." He shuddered at the recollection.

"But you can't go in the water without walking through the sand …" Her voice tailed off. "Oh, don't tell me – you didn't go in the water!"

"I imagine you have never swum in the waters of the North Sea. Even in mid-summer you need a thermal vest and a constitution of iron. I occasionally paddled but that was all. My parents really weren't beach people – they just like to sit in the sun and watch the world go by. And when there wasn't any sun, they sat inside and watched the little television."

"It doesn't sound much fun for a young boy. Quite lonely."

"Oh I was happy enough just to be away from school."

"Where was your caravan?"

"Over there, more or less where that block of apartments is. It was a big static caravan, so we had plenty of room."

"So how did you spend your time?"

"Most of the time I was on the pier. It's still there, so let's take a look."

They strolled along to where the pier jutted out deep into the sea. Richard looked around in amazement.

"It's quite different to how remember it. They didn't have all these hi-tech rides in my day. I used to spend my time on the slot machines, the shooting gallery and the dodgems. Or fishing for crabs."

"All things you can do by yourself …"

"Exactly. I would save up my pocket money for months in advance. And they had dolphins and killer whales – I used to spend hours watching them. But best of all was Steel Stella."

"Steel Stella? It sounds like another one of your precision optical instruments!"

"By no means. Steel Stella was one of the earliest roller coasters in this country. She used to dominate the end of the pier. When I was young she looked huge and terrifying, but by today's standards I suppose she was pretty tame."

"You talk of her as if she was a real person!"

"In a way she was, to me. She was like a familiar friend. I went on her every single day, until tragedy struck. In 1973 she burnt down. We weren't here at the time but I saw it on the television. I was devastated. We never went back to Clacton after that."

They finished their tour of the pier, with Richard in a rather mournful mood. Camille thought that if Eva had been a little older it might have been fun to try out some of the family entertainments on offer, but she sensed that Richard, having stirred up old memories, was now anxious to be gone. They wandered back along the beach, then spotted a lone beach café still open at this late stage of the year. Camille admitted to being hungry, so Richard bought them some chips to enjoy ("the British way, with salt and vinegar, not mayonnaise"), as they perched on the sea wall.

"Look out for the seagulls", he warned, as an interested flock circled overhead. "They will steal the chips from your hand."

"Really?" Camille held a chip out in front of her. Immediately a plump and clearly overfed bird swooped and snatched it from her fingers. She squealed with delight. Richard sighed patiently.

"Camille, you really mustn't do that, you will just encourage them and we will be mobbed. Apart from losing our lunch, it might frighten Eva – and anyway it's extremely unhygienic."

Camille was contrite. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again. But it was such fun!"

They finished their chips, leaving just a few burnt and chewy bits which they threw out to the birds. The gulls swooped and wheeled and soon cleared up all the remnants. Richard fetched some coffee and they sipped the boiling liquid (which hardly merited the title of coffee) slowly while watching the waves breaking on the sand and then receding into the ocean. It was quite hypnotic. Camille eventually broke the silence.

"Why did you become a policeman, Richard?"

"I told you – to please my father, who was also in the force, although at a higher level than I am ever likely to reach."

"You didn't have a burning desire to right wrongs or to lock offenders up? That's what motivated me – I never wanted to do anything else."

"No, that came later."

"You must have wanted your father's approval very much, to go into a career that you had no particular wish for", she observed shrewdly.

"Well, as I told you, I was always something of a disappointment to him. He wanted an outgoing, sporty son – like himself – and I just didn't fit the bill."

"Your dad is sporty?"

"God, yes. He was in all the force's sports teams, captain of some of them. Racing was his passion, mind you. But then football, rugby, boxing. _Boxing!_ That's why he sent me to the school I attended- it had a very good sporting record and he hoped it would make a man of me. But of course it didn't."

"Your talents lay elsewhere. He just didn't recognise that. You can't force someone into a mould that doesn't fit them."

"No, but it didn't stop him trying. So I thought that if I joined the police it might earn me some brownie points. And to some extent I think it did. And fortunately it turned out to be a career that I was quite suited to, so it all ended up for the best."

She was intrigued. "What would you have done if you hadn't gone into the police?"

"Oh, I'd probably have had a career in academia, you know – a doctorate, then lecturing. But my dad was more of a practical man – he didn't really rate academic studies. So I never pursued that particular avenue."

"What a shame … though it would have been a loss to the police force."

"Well, I make up for it with my books. And I haven't spent the last 20 years or so regretting my decision. I've put away some very nasty criminals in my time, which has given me quite a lot of satisfaction."

While they had been speaking a few spots of rain had appeared, so it was time to head back to the car and make their way home – Camille reflecting that she had learned quite a lot about her daughter's father on this trip. She had long felt an attraction to him, but she was now beginning to understand him so much better, and the more she understood why he was as he was, the more she found herself drawn to him. It was just a shame that their time together was always so short, but as they lived half a world apart it just could not be helped.

"Right", said Richard once they were home, "let's feed and bath Eva and put her to bed, and then it's time for bubble and squeak!"

Camille was eager to experience this strange dish and watched fascinated as Richard got out all the leftover potatoes and vegetables from yesterday's roast dinner and mashed them up together into a sticky mess. Then he heated the fat in the frying pan until it was steaming and tossed the mixture in. It spat and fizzled excitedly.

"There, listen! It's bubbling and squeaking! Now it will go all crispy and brown round the edges."

Camille laughed. "Only the British could invent a name like that!"

Richard sliced up the remains of the beef and served it with the fried vegetables and some English mustard ("it's stronger than the French version") and some pickled beetroot. After her day at the seaside Camille found she was ravenous, and enjoyed every mouthful.

"Well, I've never had anything like that before, but I must say it was soooo tasty." She wiped the corners of her mouth appreciatively. Richard then produced a spotted dick pudding, covered with thick custard. She ate a little, but soon put her spoon down. "You're right, it's too heavy for me. But I least I've tried it. I hope that in turn you will be willing to give French and Caribbean cuisine more of a chance when you next come to visit!"

Richard promised to try a few more things on his next trip, which they had planned for three months hence. The arrangement they had come to was that each would take turns to travel to the other's country for a week or so every three months. It wasn't a lot, but it was the best they could manage - they calculated that it would take up most of their annual leave.

The atmosphere that evening was a little subdued, with Camille's departure imminent the following day. They chatted for a while, then Richard turned on the TV and they watched a detective mystery. Usually when Richard watched these on his own he lost patience with the lead detective, who was clearly failing to follow obvious lines of enquiry. He discovered that it was much more fun to watch with someone else, particularly if that someone was a fellow detective. They discussed and analysed every aspect of the case as it went along. Each had a suspect and each was vociferous in proclaiming their suspect's guilt, whilst the other demolished their case. In the end, a vital piece of evidence was revealed that proved the guilt of someone completely different.

"Unfair!" they cried in unison. "How were we supposed to work it out if we didn't have all the pieces of the jigsaw?" They threw cushions at the screen and booed loudly, doubling over with laughter. Richard briefly wondered what his neighbours must think at the strange sounds that must have seeped through the walls during the past week, but decided it wasn't worth worrying about. If anyone complained, he would mention the loud parties that he occasionally had to put up with.

* * *

The final morning dawned, and Camille began to pack. She had bought several items during her visit, and was having trouble fitting them all into her suitcase, so she decided to leave some things with Richard until her next trip.

"After all, I'm hardly going to need these thick clothes in the Caribbean, am I? It makes much more sense to leave them here for next time than to carry them backwards and forwards all the time."

Eventually it was done. There was just time for a final walk round Hampstead Heath with the new stroller and then it was time to leave for the airport. Neither spoke much on the journey, each pre-occupied with the coming parting. Richard helped to check in the luggage, and as the stroller was handed in he said a little prayer that it would not suffer the curse of Richard Poole and would arrive in Honoré in one piece. Then it was time to say goodbye.

Richard held Eva in his arms one more time and tickled her under the chin. She grabbed hold of his finger as usual, and he felt a lump rising in his throat as he disengaged his hand to pass her over to Camille. During the manoeuvre Eva made a final grab for his tie, clutching hold of it tightly. Quickly he loosened the knot and let her keep it.

Camille settled the child and tie in the baby carrier that was slung round her neck, then turned to Richard. "I can't give you a hug, but I would if I could", she said. "Thank you for a wonderful week and for taking such care of us both. You're a very sweet man, Richard Poole – when you're not being grumpy, of course!" And she managed to kiss him on the cheek and to squeeze his hand. Richard knew they had to go so he reluctantly let go of her hand and stood back to wave them through passport control.

"Skype on Sunday as usual?"

"Of course!"

A quick wave, and she was gone. Richard stood for a couple of minutes staring disconsolately at the corner round which they had vanished, half hoping that by sheer will power he could make them re-appear, then gave himself a mental shake, turned and made for the car park.

Once he got home, he set about cleaning and re-organising the house. Strangely, he really hadn't minded all that much that it had become so cluttered and messy, but now it was time to restore order. He moved all the baby equipment out of his bedroom and stored it in the box room, and reinstated his few personal effects. He left Camille's abandoned clothes hanging in the wardrobe; a faint scent emanated from them and he inhaled deeply, having to stop himself from burying his head in the jumpers she had worn.

The room looked cold and empty; in fact the whole house felt as if someone had died. There was no sound – no baby crying, no laughter, no inconsequential chatter. No Camille and no Eva. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so much. He couldn't remember the last time he had talked so much. He couldn't remember the last time he had missed someone so much. With a sigh, he got himself some supper and went to bed. He hadn't felt this wretched for many, many years.


	7. Chapter 7

The following day he called in early at Boots, where they had a machine for printing photos from smart phones. He chose his favourite shot of Camille lying on the floor playing with Eva and had it blown up to fit the frame she had given him. Rushing back home he quickly installed it on his bedside table, then grabbed his briefcase and headed off to work, where – to the considerable consternation of his team – for the first time ever he arrived late. He muttered some vague excuse then shut himself up in his office to catch up with what he had missed.

An hour later he called a team meeting. One by one they brought him up to date with developments that had occurred over the past week. He took his usual meticulous notes, and thanked them all for their good work in his absence. As they got up to leave, Sue asked whether he had had an enjoyable holiday.

"Yes, very enjoyable, thank you."

"And is your little girl still with you, Sir?" she ventured daringly.

"No, they have gone back to the Caribbean."

"How sad. It must be really hard to be so far away from her."

Richard glanced at the photo on his desk. Already Eva had developed considerably since that was taken. He wouldn't be seeing her again for three months, and that was a long time in a baby's life. By the next time, she would be sitting up on her own. He would probably also miss the first time she managed to crawl. And no doubt he wouldn't be there either when she took her first steps or said her first words.

"Yes, it is" he replied shortly, nodding dismissal.

"I wonder why he didn't stay in the Caribbean" mused Sergeant Graham, as they made their way back to the open-plan office they all shared. "Especially with a girlfriend like that. You should have seen her – a real stunner! God only knows how he managed it!"

"I don't know, I think you underestimate him, Peter. I know he's a bit gruff and grumpy sometimes, but underneath he's a really decent man, and I can quite see how attractive he could be if a woman took the trouble to get to know him properly."

"Bit smitten, are you, Sue?"

She laughed. "Not at all – Martin is my one and only. But I like him, he's been a good boss, he gives credit where it's due, and I can recognise quality when I see it. And you've got to admit, he's been a different person these last few months."

"Yes, he's certainly loosened up a bit. And long may it continue! So let's hope for all our sakes that they manage to sort something out."

* * *

Camille stepped out of the flight from Paris into the blinding Caribbean sunlight, and drew a deep, satisfying breath. She was home! Not that she didn't enjoy visiting Europe, but Saint-Marie was where her heart was. Apart from the bit she had left with Richard in London. She sighed deeply; it was amazing how much she was missing him already.

She quickly cleared customs, collected her luggage, installed Eva in the stroller (which had miraculously survived the journey with only a couple of small scratches) and looked for her mother, who was waiting patiently to collect her.

"I've missed you, _maman!_ "

"No, really? And there was I thinking you were having too much of a good time to remember your poor old mother!"

Camille felt a twinge of guilt; truth to tell, she had managed perfectly well without Catherine, and had only given her the occasional thought over the past week. But that had been because she had Richard … She gave Catherine a massive hug. "How could I possibly forget you, _maman_. Just wait until you see the scarf I bought for you – it's truly wicked!"

Catherine chucked her granddaughter under the chin. "And where did this fine new stroller come from?" she enquired, watching Camille out of the corner of her eye. "Did Richard give it to you?"

Camille jumped. "You know?"

Catherine smiled a little smugly. "I've always known, _chérie_. Or rather, I always suspected, and once she was born and I saw her I knew I was right."

"But how did you know? I can't see much of Richard in her."

"Well, it was always obvious to me that you were attracted to him, for some strange reason, and I noticed that his eyes tended to follow you around when he thought no-one was looking, so it wasn't difficult to guess. But then Eva's eyes gave her away."

"But her eyes are slatey-blue …"

"Haven't you noticed that they are beginning to turn green round the edges? She definitely has his eyes, Camille. But I don't understand why he went back to England if the two of you were in a relationship ..?"

Camille blushed uncomfortably. "Well, that's just it, we weren't. It only happened once, the night before he left, and that was only because he was drunk. He had no idea I was pregnant until long after he was back in London."

"And how did he take the news?"

"Well he was shocked, obviously. But I gave him the option and he chose to become involved when he didn't have to."

"So why all the secrecy?"

"Oh _maman_ , I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you. But you know Richard, he's so very private, and you know what this island is like. He couldn't bear to be the subject of gossip and ridicule. So I agreed not to reveal that he is Eva's father, at least not until he is ready. And I didn't want to make you have to lie to people when they asked you – as I knew they would – who the father was."

"You needn't have worried, _chérie_ , I have already found a way round that. I tell anyone who is nosey enough to ask that you haven't told me who the father is, which is perfectly true. I never say that I don't know!"

Camille laughed and cried at the same time. "You're so wise, _maman_ , I should have told you earlier. It was stupid of me."

"No, just loyal. So tell me: how has Richard taken to fatherhood? I must admit, I find it hard to see him in that role!"

"I know exactly what you mean, but you'd be surprised, really you would. Obviously he's very inexperienced but he's a fast learner and he's become really good with Eva. He doesn't need telling twice. He can feed her and change her and I can leave her with him any time and know that he will look after her safely. Here, look."

She reached into her bag for her phone and swiped through her photos to find a series of shots she had taken of Richard with Eva. Catherine studied them with interest.

"Well, I'd never have believed it! In all the time he was on this island I never once saw him that relaxed. I don't think I've ever seen him smiling, let alone laughing! You have been working some magic on him, my girl!"

Camille shook her head. "Not me: Eva."

Catherine smiled to herself; she thought she knew better.

"And do you know, he has the most amazing knack with her. He only has to cuddle her and talk to her and he can calm her down and stop her crying. It must be something to do with the tone of his voice or the aroma of his body that she finds soothing, but it works nearly every time! In fact I could have done with him on the flight, as she was quite fractious – he would have got her to sleep much quicker than me!"

"You should employ him as your child minder!"

Both women collapsed into giggles. "Good idea, _maman_ , but I think England's a bit too far to go for a babysitter!"

* * *

Back in London, the weather was deteriorating and Christmas was fast approaching. Richard would have liked to spend the festive season with Eva, but Camille was reluctant to leave Catherine on her own at that special time of year – and besides, it would have been difficult to explain to his parents. So he accepted with good grace that a Skype session was the most he could hope for.

He suddenly realised that if he wanted to send Christmas presents he needed to do it very quickly. It was not difficult to find something for Eva – the internet was oozing with children's toys, and he eventually settled for Mr Whoozit, which he thought would be easy to send by post. He was really clueless when it came to Camille, however. He had no experience whatsoever in buying gifts for women – unless you counted his mother, which he didn't really as she always told him exactly what to get her and where to buy it. In the end he decided to return to the antiques market they had visited during her stay, in the hope that inspiration might leap out and batter him around the head.

To tell the truth, Richard wasn't much of a shopper. If he couldn't get something on the internet he tended to rush into a shop, buy what he needed and then rush home again. Browsing really wasn't his thing, but he tried. It was particularly difficult because he had no idea what he was looking for. After wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles for some time he was beginning to despair of ever finding something that she might like. Then a flash of bright blue caught his eye.

He knew Camille often wore bright colours, and he knew she was fond of jewellery. This was the prettiest little blue enamel butterfly brooch, rimmed in silver and with a rose garnet body. According to the stall holder, it was hallmarked for 1905, so Edwardian. It was rather more than he had intended to pay, but he knew he wouldn't find anything else half as beautiful, and he was fairly sure that she would love it as much as he did. So he scurried home with his little carefully wrapped parcel, added it to the box which already contained Mr Whoozit and consigned it to the tender care of the Post Office.

He couldn't spend Christmas with Camille and Eva, and he didn't want to spend it with his parents, who were still unaware that they had a granddaughter. Richard was slowly working himself up to telling them, but he wasn't quite there yet and certainly wasn't up to spending several days with them conscious of his rather substantial sin of omission. So he volunteered to work over the Christmas break, so that those with young families could take the time off. His parents, being veterans of police work, accepted his explanation without demur. He suspected that they were secretly rather relieved they didn't have to play at happy families, as they had done on so many previous occasions.

Christmas Day itself was quiet, as it usually was, and Richard managed to slip away from work a little early so he would have the time to Skype Camille while it was still only lunchtime in the Caribbean. He thanked her for her gift; she had sent him the autobiography of Commissioner Selwyn Patterson, which he had had published as a vanity project. "We're both in it", she commented drily, "though we only play a very supporting role to his greater glory!" Richard was morbidly fascinated by this latest manifestation of Saint Marie's _éminence grise_ , and couldn't wait to get started, though he suspected his blood pressure might take a bit of a battering in the process.

Camille absolutely adored the little brooch, as he had hoped she would, and was in fact already wearing it. "Though I shall keep it for special occasions", she promised. "It's too pretty to wear every day." Eva was sitting on her lap, engrossed in Mr Whoozit, though Camille reported with mock horror that the little girl had been inundated with gifts for this, her first Christmas. "I shall have to build an annexe to the nursery!" she complained.

They made arrangements for Richard's next visit, due at the beginning of March. Once again, they would meet on Antigua. Camille had toyed with the idea of revealing that Catherine had guessed their secret, but decided in the end not to force his hand. She would wait until he felt comfortable enough to make the announcement himself. She was sure that time was not too far off now.


	8. Chapter 8

And so the weeks passed. Eva reached six months and was soon able to sit up by herself; another photograph winged its way across the Atlantic and took pride of place on the mantelpiece. Richard booked his flight to Antigua, and started to count the days. Only another five weeks to go … He bought some more lightweight clothes.

The Caribbean continued flooded in sunshine but in London winter took an icy grip on the country, with strong winds blowing freezing rain, sleet and even snow from the east. Even Richard shivered, and turned the heating up a notch or two, wondering why he seemed forever beset by extremes of temperatures: steaming hot in the Caribbean or freezing cold in England.

One Sunday towards the end of January Camille Skyped him rather earlier than usual. She looked and sounded worried.

"It's Eva, Richard, she's not well."

Richard could hear the child crying inconsolably. "What exactly is the matter with her?"

"Look at her – she's floppy and unresponsive and she's breathing very quickly. She won't feed, and she moans whenever I pick her up. And she has a high temperature but her feet and hands are cold. If she's no better by tomorrow morning I'm going to take her to the doctor."

Richard suddenly felt very cold indeed, and it had nothing to do with the wind howling outside. Not for nothing had he read endless books about child development – he recognised these symptoms instantly.

"Camille, don't wait for tomorrow, take her today – _now!_ " he urged.

"I can't, it's Sunday, there's no surgery."

"Then take her straight to the hospital. You must do it right now, Camille – time could be of the essence!"

Camille was bewildered and frightened by the urgency in Richard's voice. "Why? What do you think it is?"

"I think it could be meningitis. If I'm right, and it's not treated quickly, it could be very serious."

"Oh my God! But doesn't meningitis involve a rash, purple spots or …?"

"It can do, but not always. Hasn't she been vaccinated?"

Camille looked stricken. "She had the first dose when she was 6 weeks. She was due to have the second a couple of weeks ago, but she caught a cold so I cancelled the appointment and I haven't got round to re-booking it." She covered her mouth with her hands. "It's my fault! I should have made it a priority …"

Richard made an effort to be matter of fact. "There's no point in blaming yourself or getting worked up. That won't help. Just take her straight to the hospital, and let me know what they say."

Camille responded to the firmness in his voice and pulled herself together. "Yes, I'll go right now. Speak later."

The next hour was one of the longest Richard had ever spent. He researched the symptoms and treatment of meningitis, and the more he read the more convinced he was that he was right. So it was no surprise when a tearful Camille rang to confirm that his diagnosis was correct and Eva had been admitted to the Royal Saint-Marie Hospital as an emergency.

A few clicks on his computer and Richard had booked himself on the next flight out, which left later that evening. It being Sunday, there was no-one to ring in the HR department at work, so he made do with emailing his boss and requesting/telling him that he was taking compassionate leave. He knew he wasn't following the correct procedures; he should have waited until permission was given, but if he did that he would miss the flight and there wasn't another one for two days. He shrugged metaphorically: what was the worse they could do? Sack him for being AWOL? Well if they did, it would certainly solve one problem … He texted Camille. _I'm on my way._

* * *

A little more than 12 hours later, he was standing on the tarmac at Saint-Marie airport, for once hardly aware of the furnace beating down on him. He grabbed his overnight bag and flung himself into a taxi, which set off at the sort of sedate pace he would normally have welcomed on this chaotic island, but which today set his teeth on edge with a frenzy of anxiety.

"Can't you go a little faster?"

"You want me to break the speed limit, mister?"

"No! Yes! Just get me there quickly."

"Okaaay …" The taxi surged up the road, squealing round the bends and shot at least two red lights. Richard closed his eyes and prayed. Eventually it screeched to a halt and spat him out by the front entrance of the hospital.

"Thank you", he said, relieved and rather shaken, handing the driver a large tip. Then he sprinted into the main reception area.

"Can I help you, sir? Oh, it's Inspector Poole, isn't it? I remember you – you arrested my uncle for killing his wife – the Headmaster at the school, Nicholas Dunham. "

"Oh … er … sorry …"

"Don't apologise, he was only my uncle by marriage – Delilah was my aunt – and he was a horrible, patronising man. I couldn't stand him. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"Um … I'm here to see Eva … er … Bordey. She was admitted as an emergency yesterday."

The receptionist's face fell. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid only relatives are allowed into the Intensive Care Unit."

"But I _am_ a relative – I'm her father!"

"Oh, I see. Good heavens. Well, in that case, go right down to the end of the corridor then turn left and the Paediatric ICU is right in front of you. If you ring the bell a nurse will let you in. I'll let them know you're on your way."

Once admitted, he was shown to the relatives' room, where he was told Camille was resting. She had been dozing fitfully in one of the armchairs but opened her eyes as soon as she heard his voice. "Oh, Richard, thank God you're here", she cried as she flung herself into his arms sobbing with relief. He held her tightly, wordlessly, until the immediate storm of emotion had passed and she lifted her head from his shoulder.

"Sorry", she gulped, "I'm just a bit tired. The past 24 hours have been awful - she's got worse …"

"I'm so sorry I couldn't get here any faster, you shouldn't have had to go through all this on your own."

"I haven't been on my own. _Maman_ is here – we've been taking it in turns to sit with her. She's with her now – why don't you go in …"

When Richard entered the ward, he was taken aback by all the flashing lights and the bleeping noises made by the various machines which were monitoring the patients. Overcoming his momentary disorientation, he quickly spotted Catherine sitting motionless beside a tiny figure and called her name. She got up and came to greet him, grasping his hands warmly and giving him a brief hug.

"I'm so glad you could come, Richard – Camille really needs you now."

He was slightly nonplussed. "Erm, I expect you're wondering … um … why I'm … er … here."

"Not at all. Of course you're here – it's only right."

"You mean you … know? Camille told you?"

"No she didn't, but I've always known. Call it grandmother's instinct."

"And you don't … um … mind?"

Catherine sighed with exasperation. "Richard Poole, for a very clever man you can be amazingly stupid. What did you think I would do? Scoop out your innards, fry them up and serve them on a bed of rice? Of course I don't mind. All I want is for that little girl over there to make a full recovery."

Richard approached the bedside of his daughter and was appalled by what he saw. Tubes and wires seemed to be attached to every part of her tiny body, fluid was flowing in and out and machines with flashing lights were bleeping regularly. He turned an ashen face to Catherine.

"Has she been like this all the time? Camille said she was getting worse …?"

Catherine nodded. "The rash started to come out this morning, and a lump on her forehead started to swell. But there's the consultant coming – he promised to give us an update."

The consultant, a French man in his fifties with a firm jawline but kind eyes, motioned them back into the relatives' room, where they joined Camille. He spoke directly to Richard.

"I understand that you're the father, just arrived from London?" Richard nodded. "Well, I'll tell you what I have already said to these ladies. As you may know, there are two types of meningitis – viral and bacterial. We've carried out a range of tests, and I can confirm that Eva has the bacterial type. Meningitis is an infection of the protective membranes that surround the brain and spinal cord. Now I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but you must be aware that it can be very serious if it is not treated quickly, and it can result in permanent damage to the brain or nervous system."

Camille stifled a sob, and Richard swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the consultant's face.

"Now there are two factors that Eva has in her favour. Firstly, she has already had one of a series of meningitis vaccinations, which will help her fight the disease, and secondly you spotted the symptoms and brought her in early. There are no guarantees of course, but I am hopeful that she will make a full recovery – many babies do. But I would be failing in my duty if I did not point out that some young children are left with serious long-term problems.

Now, I realise that all the tubes and wires and the machines that she is attached to may look very daunting, but if you are at all concerned the nurse will explain exactly what each one is doing. Basically, we are giving her fluids and antibiotics intravenously, and we are hopeful that in a day or two we may see a gradual improvement. You are of course free to sit with her at any time, although we do recommend that you go home for the night and try to get some rest. We will let you know immediately if there are any changes in her condition."

He smiled kindly at them, shook Richard by the hand and went back into the ward. Camille and Catherine hugged tearfully and suggested that Richard might like to take his turn in sitting by the bedside. He went in, lowered himself carefully into the comfortable armchair which had thoughtfully been provided and took up his vigil. Watching Eva's tiny chest heaving up and down and listening to the regular bleeping of the machines was quite hypnotic and he soon found himself staring into the middle distance, lost in his thoughts.

Why had he come? What did he think he could achieve? For once in his life he had acted completely on impulse, he had abandoned his work and had not followed the correct procedures and as a result he stood in danger of serious disciplinary action. And what could he actually do, now that he was here? Nothing. He was utterly powerless. Eva's life was completely dependent on the professionals who were treating her; he could hold her little hand and stroke her fat cheeks, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to help her.

But, a little voice told him, there _was_ something he could do for Camille. She needed him to be strong and supportive, to help her get through this terrible time. He knew full well that he lacked whatever gene it was that allowed people to say the right thing at the right time, and he was all too well aware that he had failed miserably when he had tried to support Camille after Aimée's death. But this time he was a fellow-sufferer; he knew what Camille was going through because he was going through the same thing himself, and maybe – just maybe – that might make a difference. In any event, he knew he had to try.

A tap on the shoulder interrupted his reverie; a nurse told him there was someone to see him and Camille at Reception. As they walked down the long corridor, Richard could not imagine who this could be, since virtually no-one knew he was here. _I should have known_ , was his first thought on glimpsing the imposing bulk of Selwyn Patterson.

"Inspector!" the big man called, "it's good to see you back on the island, although I'm sorry it is in such sad circumstances."

 _He knows – of course he bloody well knows._ "Um … er … yes …"

Commissioner Patterson had forgotten how much he had enjoyed discomforting his Inspector. Of course, he had tried the same tactics on his successors, but it had never been as satisfying as the ease with which he managed to tie Richard up in knots. But he was not a bad man at heart; he was genuinely concerned to hear of Eva's plight and listened attentively as they explained the course of the illness and the treatment she was receiving.

"Such a beautiful little girl – we must just hope that she makes a full recovery." He squeezed Camille's arm sympathetically, shook Richard warmly by the hand and turned to take his leave. "I will offer a prayer for her to the Almighty", he promised solemnly as he stepped into the revolving glass door.

"I thought he _was_ the Almighty!" muttered Richard to Camille as they made their way back to the unit.

Catherine had volunteered for another stint at the bedside, so Richard and Camille were left together in the relatives' room. They sat together tensely on the sofa.

"What if … what if she doesn't make a full recovery? What if she's damaged in some way?" Camille asked tremulously. "How will we cope?"

Richard had done his research on the internet ; he was fully aware of all the possible unpleasant scenarios but firmly banished them from his mind and tried for a positive note.

"You heard what the consultant said – they are hopeful she will recover. I'm sure she'll be fine – she has your strength and my determination and that will pull her through. Let's not discuss any other possibility unless and until we really have to."

Camille nodded and smiled weakly, but was then overcome by a torrent of grief. "It's all my fault", she sobbed, "I delayed that second vaccination. I'm a terrible mother …"

Richard gathered her hands in his. "Look, it was only one injection out of a series of 4. It wouldn't have made that much difference. Even the full course doesn't give you 100% immunity, so it's extremely likely she would have caught the disease anyway. And for the record, I think you're a _fantastic_ mother."

"You do?"

"Of course I do."

She sniffed and tried to smile through her tears. "That's nice", she whispered somewhat comforted, and laid her head on his shoulder.

A knock on the door a few minutes later made them spring apart.

"Chief! I _told_ Fidel you'd be here when I spoke to him last night." Dwayne's grinning face peered round the door. Not being family he had had to use all his famous charm to sweet-talk his way into the ICU. "Fidel is sorry he can't be here himself, but his boss is away and he's been left in charge of the station. But he sends you his very best wishes and hopes your little girl makes a full and speedy recovery."

Richard's head was spinning. "Dwayne, is there _anyone_ on this island who doesn't know about … you know … Eva?"

"Oh yes, plenty. But anyone who knew you and Camille back in the day guessed long ago – it was obvious there was something between you. Fidel and I never understood why you were so keen to get back to England when you could have had it all here …"

"Yes … well … um … never mind about that now …"

"So how is the little one doing?"

Once more they explained the current situation. As they spoke, Dwayne's cheery aspect grew a little cloudy and by the end of the recital he was quite grave. He said all the right things, but couldn't stay long as he was supposed to be patrolling the harbour on the lookout for smugglers. When he left, he seemed to suck the vitality out of the room. Richard had forgotten what a life force Dwayne could be and vowed that if Eva recovered he should have his wish and become her godfather.

As the evening wore on, Richard and Camille insisted that Catherine returned home to get some sleep, as the older woman was clearly exhausted. She had closed La Kaz on a temporary basis but had been at the hospital non-stop for well over 24 hours and now could barely keep her eyes open. A taxi was called to take her the short journey down the hill to the sea front but she refused to go until Camille promised that she would follow herself in a couple of hours.

Neither was very hungry but they managed a few mouthfuls of food in the cafeteria and then settled down for the evening vigil. Richard had not yet booked a hotel, and thought he might spend the night at the hospital, but the nurse looking after Eva gently persuaded him that it was really not necessary and far better for him to get some proper sleep and return refreshed in the morning. His rational side could see the sense of this and he gave way in the end, having first made her faithfully promise to ring both of them at whatever time if there was any change in their daughter's condition.

It was not far from the hospital to La Kaz and Camille decided to walk to get some fresh air. Truth to tell, the humidity was high and there wasn't a great deal of freshness to be had but Richard agreed that a walk would do her good and insisted on accompanying her home. A shortish stroll down the hill led them to the beach area where Catherine's bar stood, denuded of all is usual lights, noise and conviviality. Richard stopped and put his case down.

"So I'll see you first thing tomorrow back at the hospital. I'll go and try the hotels along the sea front – I'm sure I'll be able to get a room." He turned to go, but she grabbed his arm pleadingly.

"Stay with me tonight, Richard – just for comfort, nothing else. I don't want to be on my own."

He didn't need much persuasion – like her, he was not relishing the prospect of a night alone with his thoughts. Camille was sure she wouldn't be able to sleep, but the stress of the past 48 hours took its toll and, nestled in the crook of Richard's arm, she soon drifted off. He watched her quiet, regular breathing and gently pushed a stray curl off her face. It was so different to the last – and only – time they had shared a bed. Her beauty was undiminished but he felt no trace of desire, just an immense tenderness and a determination to support and protect her – whatever lay ahead. Five minutes later he too was fast asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

He woke early, showered quickly and dressed – but Catherine was before him. She arrived at the bedroom door with one mug of coffee and a second of tea, to Richard's intense mortification. How had she known he was here?

"Ah … er … good morning, Catherine. I think I should … um … you know … explain …"

"For goodness sake stop wittering, Richard! You don't need to explain anything. You and Camille are both mature adults and you can do whatever you like without having to worry about what anyone else might think. When will you understand: the only thing that matters is that Eva gets well." She plonked the mugs down. "Breakfast is ready downstairs."

He sipped his tea thoughtfully while Camille showered and dressed. Catherine was right, of course. He had spent his whole life worrying about things that didn't really matter. It was the result of his Middle England suburban upbringing: the tyranny of the twitching net curtains. But it was hard to change the habits of a lifetime.

The next couple of days passed without incident. Eva was showing no real signs of improvement but at least she was stable and not getting any worse. They spent their days at the hospital, each spending periods at the bedside interspersed with periods quietly talking in the relatives' room or strolling along the beach to get some fresh air. At night they found comfort in the closeness of one another and clung together until overcome by sleep.

Each day they walked up the hill to the hospital and back down again to La Kaz. And on each journey they were stopped by people they knew well, slightly or not at all. Being a native of the island, Camille was not remotely surprised but Richard was amazed at how concerned and sympathetic everyone was, even people he had never met before. Even more remarkably, they managed to do it without appearing inquisitive or judgmental. No net curtains here. He wondered why it had seemed so important to conceal his paternity of Eva, since no-one seemed the least bit concerned.

On the fourth day, the doctors were hopeful of an improvement. At their suggestion, Richard perched on the side of Eva's bed and bent over her, stroking her cheeks and talking to her in the hope that his soothing voice and presence might prove the tipping point. He had been talking for a good twenty minutes – recounting the details of some of his more successful cases – when he felt her stir, and a little hand made a weak grab for the end of his tie which was dangling tantalisingly close.

"Call Camille!" he urged the nurse, anxious that she should share this breakthrough moment. Camille had been trying to rest, when the nurse popped her head round the door to say that she was wanted urgently in the ward. Fearing the worst she rushed in, bracing herself for what she would find, only to be greeted by a beaming Richard.

"Look!" he said, and as she peered over his shoulder she saw that his tie was caught in the rather slack grasp of their daughter. "She's turned a corner."

"Oh thank God", she whispered, and burst into a flood of tears. Richard gently disengaged himself from Eva and held Camille in his arms, stroking her hair and allowing her to sob into his shoulder. He rather wished he could do the same and had to swallow hard and screw his eyes up tightly – he might be gradually shedding some of his most profoundly held habits but he was not yet ready to break down in public.

The doctors and nurses gathered round Eva and announced with some satisfaction that she was clearly making progress.

"There is still a long way to go", the consultant warned, "she is still a very sick little girl and will need to be in hospital for some time yet, but if she continues to improve we will consider moving her out of intensive care at the end of the week."

The news came as a tremendous relief for Richard, not just because his little girl was getting better but because he was shortly due back at work. He had received no more than a mild reproof for abandoning his job without permission and his boss had been surprisingly understanding and sympathetic. But he had only been given a week's leave, and he had not relished the thought of leaving Camille alone to cope if Eva's condition had not improved. Equally, he had not relished the prospect of having to ask for more time off.

But now he could fly home on Sunday as planned without a massive feeling of guilt. Camille of course was also on compassionate leave, but thought that once Eva was out of intensive care she could return to work for a few hours each day. The crisis seemed to be passing, and Richard felt a huge sense of relief, yet he was loth to leave. He wanted to be with Eva, but most of all he wanted to be with Camille. He could acknowledge that now.

They had grown so close that he could no longer contemplate life without her. Less than eighteen months ago he had walked out of her life and had not expected to ever see her again. How stupid he had been! Of course he had always been attracted to her, but he had never really known her properly back in the days when he was Saint-Marie's finest. But over the months of her pregnancy and the months since Eva's birth she had become more and more a part of the daily fabric of his life. He wasn't entirely sure that he knew what love was, but he was absolutely certain that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Camille, and if that was love, then so be it.

Did she feel the same? He thought so, but he was so useless at understanding people – and women in particular – that he might be completely wrong. She might just be tolerating him because he was Eva's father. That was a sobering thought. He needed to say something, to sort it out, before he left, but he wasn't at all sure how to go about it.

Eva continued to improve and on the Saturday she was moved out of intensive care. Although it was still too early to be sure, the consultant told Richard he believed she would make a full recovery and that there would be no lasting damage or impairment.

"She's a resilient little girl", he said. "Must take after her father."

"More likely her mother!"

"Well, either way, she's on the mend."

Richard thanked the consultant profusely for everything the hospital had done, both for Eva and for himself and Camille, who had been warmly welcomed and looked after throughout the week, and left to return to La Kaz. He would make a last brief visit to Eva tomorrow morning, on his way to the airport.

* * *

Later that evening Camille sat on the bed watching him pack. It wasn't the first time she had felt this leaden heaviness – she remembered the day he left the island to escort Vicky Woodward back to the UK. He had been packing then, keeping up a flow of rather inane remarks and completely oblivious to the turmoil to which his Detective Sergeant was prey. She had been so sure he was leaving for good. She should have realised then that the strange attraction she felt for him was serious. She should have said something, but she didn't - she had just given him a peck on the cheek, and when he didn't respond she was even more sure that he would not be coming back, that what she felt wasn't reciprocated.

Of course she had been overjoyed that he had decided to return, but matters had not really progressed between them, and soon he was leaving again – this time for good. Definitely. That was why she had kissed him that evening – so she wouldn't have any more regrets. At least she had shown him that he was more than just a boss to her. Of course one thing had led to another and then … to Eva.

Frankly, she didn't know how she would have got through the past week if he hadn't been there. Of course her mother was wonderful, but it wasn't the same as having Richard there to support her, to comfort her, to hold her. She was no fool and she knew how lucky she was. Many men would have walked away when faced with an unwanted pregnancy, or at most offered financial support. She knew it had been hard for Richard to come to terms with the situation, but once he had, his commitment was 100% and couldn't be faulted.

He really had been a rock, especially this last week, and though she knew he had to go, she couldn't bear to lose him again. Meeting up every three months or so was the best they could manage, but it was no longer enough for her – she wanted more, but didn't know how to achieve it. Perhaps she should give up her job and move to London? She didn't really want to do that, especially as her mother would be so upset, but perhaps it was the price she had to pay …

Richard looked up from his packing and was startled by the expression on her face. "What is it, Camille?"

She threw her arms round his neck. "Oh Richard, I don't want you to go. I want us to be a family, to be together."

He tightened his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. "I want that too, Camille, more than anything."

"But how …?"

"I think I know how. Listen …" And he told her the plan that had been slowly formulating in his mind over the past 24 hours. Her eyes opened wide with surprise.

"Are you quite sure? That's a huge step."

"Yes, I'm sure. If it's what you would like …?"

Her eyes shone. "Of course I'd like it. I'd like something else too."

"I hoped you would." And he kissed her – a long, lingering kiss that left them both breathless. After that buttons and zips flew and discarded clothes were trampled underfoot in the rush to the bed.

"It's a good job your mother has re-opened the bar", he panted, "her presence across the corridor would be – to put it mildly – somewhat inhibiting!"

Camille giggled. "Well, you seem to be managing pretty well. And anyway she thinks we've been doing this all week, so she probably wouldn't turn a hair! I think she's turned the music up deliberately so we can make as much noise as we want …"

Richard gasped as her exploring hand slid over his stomach. Before he lost all control he knew there was something he needed to ask, something he should have asked last time.

"Camille", he said desperately, "are you on the pill?"

"No" she answered gaily, "and I don't care. I'm an only child and so are you and I think it would have done both of us – particularly you – a great deal of good to have a brother or a sister. So if I get pregnant again, it's obviously meant to happen." She looked at him sharply. "Don't tell me you want to stop now?"

"No, I don't want to stop." Her hand continued its explorations. He added honestly " I don't think I could, actually …"

"Then what are you waiting for?"

The beat of the music continued to thud and the diners downstairs tucked into their steaks and seafood salads totally oblivious to the cries and moans and gasps above their heads. Catherine swished and swayed her way around the tables with laden plates and a friendly greeting to one and all, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. All was well with the world.


	10. Chapter 10

_Fifteen months later_

Richard heard the sound of a key in the door and knew that Camille was home. It was her first day back at work since the birth of their second daughter, and he hoped everything had gone well. He was sitting on the veranda with Zoe in the crook of his arm and she was guzzling her latest bottle of milk. He had been musing about starting her on solids, and thought he might give it a try in the next week or so.

When he had first broached the idea to Camille of giving up his police work and moving to Saint-Marie to take care of the children (though there was only one at the time) while she worked, she had been astonished; it had always seemed to her that until very recently there was nothing he cared about in life but his work, and that he was a detective through and through. But, as Richard had pointed out, policing hadn't been his first love.

"I've given it more than 20 years, and I've probably got as far as I'm likely to get. Being on the homicide squad is not like it used to be – years ago there was a lot of middle-class, suburban crime, and I was fine with that, but these days, it's all street crime … you know … gangs and stabbings and shootings of young people … children really. I don't really fit in – apart from anything else I don't have the sort of people skills that you need to deal with that sort of crime. So it will be no great hardship to leave it behind. And you still have a great career in front of you …"

"But you're so clever, Richard, you need something to keep your brain occupied – and not just puzzles."

"Yes, I know, and that's the beauty of this plan. Because now I can do what I always really wanted, which was to pursue an academic career. I want to enrol for a PhD, focussing on patterns of crime in the UK and the Caribbean. Of course I won't be able to do a great deal of it until Eva goes to school and I have some time to myself, but PhDs can last for 10 years or so, so I should be able to fit it in. And after that, maybe a bit of lecturing."

It had taken a little time but Camille was finally convinced that he really meant what he said. She felt a little guilty at being the one to continue working, but it was obvious that he really enjoyed being with Eva and she knew he was perfectly capable of looking after her, so she had agreed. And shortly afterwards she found herself pregnant with Zoe.

Now Richard had two daughters to care for. When Zoe was born Camille had wondered whether he was disappointed not to have a son, but he had assured her that he felt far more confident with girls than boisterous little boys and had secretly been hoping for another one. He rather liked being the sole male surrounded by females (four of them if you counted Catherine) – his 'monstrous regiment', as he sometimes called them when he felt stressed or got at.

He intensely disliked being called a house-husband, preferring to describe himself as a stay-at-home dad. In the beginning he had been something of a novelty to the good people of Honoré, for whom the man was always the breadwinner and it was the woman who stayed at home and took care of the children. But it was a nine days wonder and they soon got used to seeing their former police chief pushing his daughters around the streets or lining up with the other mums to collect them from nursery. After all, he had always been eccentric!

Richard had been a little dubious, but Camille had been insistent that from an early age Eva (and later Zoe) should attend nursery for a few hours a week.

"She needs to learn to be with other children. Think how different life would have been for you if you had learned to socialise properly when you were young."

That was undeniable, and so every Tuesday morning Richard made the walk down from the hill where their house stood - overlooking the bay but far enough away from the sand - to deliver Eva to the nursery which had been set up near the market.

He still found the climate difficult, but the lighter clothes he now wore made it a little more bearable, and in the shade of the veranda it was actually quite pleasant to sit and watch the children playing. He had held out for a long time against shorts, claiming he was too old and his legs weren't good enough, until one day Camille slyly remarked how much taller they made him look. Now he lived in them all the time and whilst he used too much sunblock for his skin to be considered bronzed, at least he looked less pasty than he had before.

Did he miss police work? Yes, a bit. It had been undeniably satisfying to solve crimes and take offenders off the street, but it had not made him _happy_. Compared to what he had now, it was a small price to pay. He had resigned as soon as he got back to London. Somewhat to his surprise, his team seemed genuinely sad to see him go; they held a little tea party for him on his last day and gave him a silver dagger with an inscription on it. It was strangely emotional, and he found himself inviting them to visit him in the Caribbean, though so far only Sue Jenkins had made it.

He had immediately gone to visit his parents too, and broken the news to them that not only had did they have a 7-month-old granddaughter but that their son was about to leave the police, sell his house and move permanently to the Caribbean. It had been a lot to take in, and he suspected they were still not entirely reconciled to his abandoned police career, but they had come out for a visit which had gone better than he could have expected, and that was as much as he could expect.

A couple of months ago, during his parents' visit, he and Camille had finally got round to getting married, which satisfied his more conventional side and pleased his mother even more. And now their family was complete and Camille had returned to work for the second time. The current DI was due to retire in less than a year, and she had hopes of promotion – hopes which were being fostered by the Commissioner.

Richard looked up as she walked into the lounge. Eva, who had been playing intently at his feet with a wooden cube puzzle leapt up and ran shrieking to her mother, who gathered her in her arms and gave her an enormous hug. She came out on to the veranda, bent over and kissed the top of his head.

"Well, how did it go?"

She gave a small sigh. "I missed the girls … and I missed you. But it was good to be back."

"I missed you too – it was very quiet!" She gave him an indignant slap and he pulled her down for a lingering kiss.

"Busy?"

"Fairly. They are in the middle of a tricky case, which is not going too well, so you may have to give them some help."

Richard smiled. It happened from time to time: when the team came up against a brick wall they knew he had the most acute and analytical brain on the island so they asked him to cast an eye over the case. And sometimes he was able to come up with a new line of enquiry or to focus on a detail they had overlooked. It was a little irregular, but he enjoyed doing it, and the Commissioner didn't appear to object.

He had made a start on his PhD but progress was currently slow, as nearly all his time was spent on the children. But in little more than a year Zoe would join Eva at nursery at least for one or two sessions a week, and then he intended to really get going with the research.

Zoe had finished her feed, so he laid her down for a nap and joined Camille for the glass of wine she had brought out onto the veranda. She nuzzled up against him and he slipped an arm round her shoulders. Eva climbed onto his lap and snuggled up too. Soon she was fast asleep.

"Mmm …" sighed Camille. "That's nice. And as it's a special occasion I think you should wear your pajamas tonight. Then I can have the pleasure of taking them off …"

Even now, Richard blushed. "I knew I had married a brazen hussy. Well, if you insist …"

"Oh, I most definitely do. They are long overdue an outing."

"When you put it like that, how can I possibly resist?"

"You can't, so that's settled then. Happy?"

"Perfectly."

And it was true – he was. After the unlikeliest of beginnings, he had found contentment. He had his family and he was loved. It was a world away from the policeman he had been just a couple of years ago, but life was good. And it was all due to that one moment of madness.

He closed his eyes and gave thanks.


End file.
